No Longer Responsible
by Vilsy
Summary: Based around TMNT 2007 Movie. A month or so after the Max Winters incident, Leonardo drives his brothers fiercely to rebuild them as a team. Though Raphael has fallen back into line, an unlikely brother starts to display unrest. Angsty. Chapter 8 is here.
1. Chapter 1

**No Longer Responsible**

_TMNT Fan Fic by teh Vilsy_

**A/N: **Peter Laird, Kevin Eastman, Mirage Studios… talk to them if you wanna know who's responsible for these lovable green fellows. Not me of course.

Also, this story was just spurred from my annoyance that a lot of Mikey/Donnie scene were cut from the final TMNT 2007 movie in favor of angst. So I decided to let Donatello be counter-angsty. Please take it with a grain (or bag) of salt. Fear teh angst.

* * *

Bright blue eyes snapped open sharply as their owner unceremoniously took a clumsy spill over the back rest of the worn yet comfortable couch. "Sensei, I'm watching it for the science!" a youthful voice suddenly barked randomly from the floor. Michelangelo had more or less claimed the piece of furniture as his own personal roost. He had taken to staying up late and loafing on the well-used cushions while vegging out in front of droning infomercials about diet pills or juice makers. Late one evening, Master Splinter had emerged from his slumber to retrieve a drink of water and caught his impressionable son watching a late night program of questionable moral content. After that embarrassment, Michelangelo had been rather jumpy while watching TV after hours.

But as the startled teenager pulled himself up to look around for the source of the loud noise that had jarred him awake, he saw nothing out of the ordinary. He blinked a few times and stood motionless, staring at the dim light that emanated from the television screen. As his senses returned to him, he immediately turned and crept down the hallway to the dojo. Whenever there was a loud crash during the night, it was always Raphael flying off the handle over something or other. He never liked to get involved in his bigger brother's storms of rage; despite loving to fight, Michelangelo hated confrontation amongst his siblings. However, his innate curiosity always desired to be satiated even if it meant putting himself in harm's way. He moved silently to the entry way and peeked around the corner. The dojo was dark and still; if Raphael was really inside taking his anger out on various heavy and expensive objects, it would not be so peaceful.

"Weird," Michelangelo mused under his breath as he turned back to observe the nearby bedroom doors. Had he imagined the sound? If there was danger, surely Leonardo and Splinter would have lighted from their beds to come and investigate. If the culprit was not in fact Raphael, then...

CRASH

Michelangelo perked his attention back down the hallway to the other end of the lair. The sound was much more distant this time, and only barely audible from where he stood. He hastily backtracked through the living room, past the kitchen and to the end of the corridor. There, he was met with a solid door adorned with a sign that read very plainly, "KEEP OUT, PLEASE."

Having matured slightly from his younger days, Michelangelo would honor such requests given the lecture he would receive if he did not comply. However, at two o'clock in the morning after two loud disturbances, he resolved to forcefully let himself in with an unscrupulous shoulder ram. Surprisingly, the door had already been unlocked and slightly ajar, so such force was completely unnecessary. Instead of making a graceful and poised entrance, Michelangelo wildly tumbled into the dark room, did a somersault and landed unceremoniously on his shell.

"Ow..." he groaned indignantly.

"Who's there?" an angry voice demanded not far away.

Michelangelo rubbed his head ruefully and looked up to see an ominous figure silhouetted against the dim glow of tiny orange and green lights. The orange-clad turtle reached back for his nunchaku but to his dismay found them to be missing from his belt. They were more than likely wedged between the sofa cushions. Whoever had broken into their home would have to settle for a fist fight to the death. Michelangelo quickly recovered his footing and clenched his fingers together. As he rose to his full height, ready to lunge at the stranger before him, a small clicking sound suddenly echoed through the silence and a blinding flash of light assailed his vision.

"Mikey," the gruff voice simply stated with an air of irritation.

Michelangelo squinted and marveled at the fact that the intruder apparently knew his nickname, but when his vision focused he was surprised to see no intruder at all.

"Donnie?" he breathed, scratching his head at the sight of his intellectually inclined brother standing by a light switch with a rather perturbed look on his usually calm face. "What're you doin' in here?"

"This is my lab, genius," Donatello hissed with a tone of exasperation that Michelangelo could not recall leaving the mild-mannered turtle's mouth in recent history. A silver-colored object abruptly dropped from the violet-clad turtle's right hand and impacted noisily on the hard floor. Michelangelo cringed at the "TING TING TING TING" sound and grimaced nervously when he further examined his brother's expression. Donatello looked livid.

"D-dude, s-orry about--" Michelangelo began in a stammer, but was unable to complete his thought when he caught glimpse of the condition of the room around him. Complementing the intimidating countenance of his brother, the usual order of the lab appeared to be partially in shambles. Several of Donatello's recent engineering projects lay battered and broken against the wall and an entire box of tools had been spilled across the floor. Michelangelo noticed that the object Donatello had dropped was a solitary wrench which had bounced its way over to its fellow tools sprawled across the shiny tiles of the floor. The confused turtle took another quick look around to see if there really had been any intruders lurking about. Who else could have possibly done such a thing to Donatello's lab?

"Donnie... what-"

"What's going on in here?" A calm yet concerned voice came from behind. Michelangelo quickly rounded on the doorway to see two glinting eyes observing from the shadows of the hallway. Apparently Leonardo had been sleeping lightly and had come to investigate. His brown eyes passed from his little brother to Donatello who offered nothing but silence and a stern glare. A moment later, Leonardo noticed the overturned machinery, toolbox, and overall disarray of the lab that his brother normally kept so spic-and-span. These items had not just fallen accidentally-- they had been thrown forcibly. Leonardo's defensive nature kicked in immediately and his honed senses simultaneously analyzed the environment. The only living things he detected in the vicinity were himself and his two brothers. Leonardo's muscles tensed and his sharp eyes jumped directly back to Donatello for answers. "What happened?"

Michelangelo turned back to Donatello and considered blurting out "Well that's what I've been tryin' to ask!" but the harsh and pent-up expression on Donatello's face kept the words from leaving his throat. His clever brother was doing something out of the ordinary-- ignoring Leonardo's inquiries with defiant silence. _Whoa_, Michelangelo thought as he stood back and took in the awkward situation. Why wouldn't Donatello answer? Surely if his beloved laboratory had been sabotaged or if he had been attacked, he would openly report the incident to his brothers. But instead, he stood there in an obstinate manner and glared menacingly at Leonardo for reasons Michelangelo could not begin to fathom. Was it possible that Donatello... himself...

"Sorry," Michelangelo suddenly offered in a hushed voice, his arms sliding behind his shell sheepishly. Both of his brothers turned their gazes slowly to acknowledge his statement. "Sorry, I stayed up too late watching TV, ya know? An' I guess I was like sleepwalking and I thought this was the kitchen." Both Leonardo and Donatello lifted an eye ridge curiously as Michelangelo delivered his story. Michelangelo bit his lip; he was really going out on a strange limb here but it was too late to climb back down. He bolstered his performance with the most pitiful look of regret his shimmering eyes could manage, and he directed this charade to Leonardo. "I'm really sorry... I knocked over all of Donnie's stuff on accident. I'm really sorry, Donnie," he added, turning to stare directly into Donatello's eyes. The corner of his brother's mouth twitched, but his expression did not change, nor did he choose to speak on the matter of Michelangelo's confession. "I'll clean it up..."

Leonardo made chastising moan of displeasure in his throat and nodded at Donatello as if now understanding why he was giving such dirty looks. "You ought to have more consideration for others, Michelangelo," he began, crossing his arms and shaking his head at his smaller brother in disappointment.

Michelangelo lowered his eyes and frowned, as he usually did when being lectured. "I know, I'm sorry, Leo."

Donatello looked very tense and uncomfortable but still didn't move a muscle or speak a word.

"I thought we were working on being more disciplined?" Leonardo continued, raising a finger and waving it a few times to make his point.

"Yeah, Leo. I'm sorry. I'll try harder."

"Don't apologize to me. Apologize to Donatello," Leonardo instructed in a parental tone, as if the first several times Michelangelo had said he was sorry had not been accounted for.

"Sorry, Donatello," Michelangelo repeated while glancing back up at his silent brother. Donatello looked utterly flustered.

"Go back to bed, Donatello. Let Michelangelo take care of this mess. He seems to like staying up late anyhow." With that, Leonardo slipped backward into the shadows of the hallway and made his retreat to his bedroom.

The remaining brothers stood quietly as they listened to their leader's soft footfalls until they were no longer audible. Michelangelo grinned slightly, taking his incredible acting skills as a victory against Leonardo's scrutiny and perception. However, Donatello finally stirred and did not seem nearly as amused. "What the heck was that?" he wheezed between gritted teeth as he stormed over to the door and shut it tightly.

"Uh... well I thought-"

"Whatever you THOUGHT you were THINKING was STUPID, you IDIOT!"

Michelangelo's heart sank as he took in Donatello's hurtful words. The subject of his intelligence was always an avenue for poking well-meaning fun, and Michelangelo didn't always mind it. Most of the time he enjoyed the attention his so-called lack of wit got him. But the manner in which Donatello had delivered these words was intentional and spiteful. Donatello must have realized this, because his angry expression melted away suddenly as if he had just slapped Michelangelo across the face and was regretting it.

"Mikey..." he said in a softer tone, his fists still clenched in frustration. The two looked at each other for some time before Donatello spoke again. "Why did you do that?"

"Do what?" Michelangelo mumbled cautiously while looking away, lest his wit be brought into question again.

"You lied to Leonardo."

The weight of his spontaneous rouse finally bore down on Michelangelo and he grimaced at the thought. "Yeah..." He crossed his arms and seemed torn-- annoyed at Donatello for being so crass when all of his intentions had been well-meaning. "Well you seemed really ticked, like you and Leo were about to go at it for some reason... like you were... I dunno. Hidin' something." Michelangelo regretted his roundabout accusation, but Donatello stepped forward and nodded.

"Yeah well," he murmured, prodding his index fingers together as he contemplated his next words. "You shouldn't have taken the blame for what I did."

Michelangelo's eyes jumped back up to his brother as he confirmed his suspicions. He pried for further explanation but tried to come off as oblivious. "Whuddya mean, what you did? What happened, dude?"

Donatello strode away from his brother and stopped in front of one of the devices that lay damaged on the floor. He nudged it with his foot and glared at it with a look of despair. It was then that something (in Michelangelo's eyes) surreal happened. Donatello quickly drew back a clenched fist and drove it straight into the brick wall. Michelangelo let out an audible "Eep!" and quickly skittered over to his brother and grabbed the offending hand.

"Whoa whoa, Donnie! What's the deal, bro? Be chill! You don't want Leo comin' back and lecturin' me again, do ya?" Michelangelo's attempt at spreading mirth fell short as Donatello wrenched his hand from his brother's grasp.

"Get out," he commanded under his breath, pointing one of his bruised fingers at the door.

"Wh-what...?"

"I said get out!" Donatello spat, whirling around to give Michelangelo an intimidating scowl.

Michelangelo stood in quiet amazement as he beheld this unprecedented rage from his calm and collected brother. What was more shocking was that Michelangelo leaned forward and boldly replied. "No."

Donatello's scowl quickly reverted into a confused grimace as he blinked at his orange-clad brother. "No...?" he repeated in a much more familiar voice.

"Gimme that!" Michelangelo snapped, quickly snatching at Donatello's face mask and pulling it off of his brother's head.

"Hey! What the heck are you doing, Mikey? Give that back!" Donatello insisted as he lunged forward with and outreached arm, but was met with Michelangelo's elbow to his plastron.

"Not a chance, Raph," Michelangelo retorted with as much seriousness in his voice as he could conjure. "I'm tellin' Donnie you've been parading around with his mask on, pretendin' to be him. Well ya can't fool me, dude. Donnie's not that much of a jerk."

Donatello stopped struggling and realized where Michelangelo was going with his taunt. He stood back and sighed deeply, running his fingers across his bare face. "OK, I'm sorry, Mikey. I didn't mean to snap at you like that. I was wrong."

"Donnie? Wrong...? Dude, I gotta get that on tape!" Michelangelo sang merrily as he turned around to hold Donatello's mask up with a grin.

Finally, Donatello cracked a smile. "Yeah, you wish, Mikey." He accepted the cloth bandana and replaced it across his face while Michelangelo examined him to make sure he really wasn't Raphael in disguise.

"So bro, you gotta tell me what happened. Why're you so mad?"

"It's nothing, Mikey. I'm sorry I woke you," Donatello said dismissively as he reached down to pick up the heavy mass of metal and wires. Without being asked, Michelangelo forced himself beside his brother and grabbed hold of the other end of the device and helped lift it. "You don't need to help me. Go on to bed, OK?"

"Nothin' doin', bro," Michelangelo declared resolutely as the two of them heaved the cumbersome object. "I ain't leavin' till you tell me what's goin' on with you."

"It's petty and childish," Donatello blurted out as they dropped the device on one of his workbenches.

Michelangelo shot him a smile and leaned his arms on the machine. "You're talkin' to the right guy then, dude!"

Donatello uttered a "HA!" in agreement then flicked his hands animatedly in a "shooing" manner. "Don't lean on that, it's fragile."

Michelangelo's eyes widened in disbelief as he lifted his weight from the device. "Are you kidding? Dude, you already totaled the thing. What more could I possibly do?"

"HA!" Donatello chirped again, but this time in a much more dismal tone. "You're right on that one, Mikey." He placed his hands on his hips and leaned over to look inside the gaping crack in the object's siding. "The micro-processor flew out and the motherboard looks to be cracked from the impact. And the liquid nitrogen from the over-clock cooling system is leaking out."

Michelangelo stumbled back a few feet and cleared his throat. His knowledge of chemistry wasn't the greatest but any sort of liquid leaking out of a machine sounded dangerous. He crossed his arms over his chest and observed the device with idle curiosity. It was cube-shaped, or at least it had been before being hurled against the wall. It had a black, sleek and shiny casing and an absurd amount of multi-colored buttons lining the top of it. "So uh... like what was that thing, anyway?" he asked sheepishly.

"I don't know yet," Donatello admitted, rubbing his chin with a disappointed look in his eyes. "But it doesn't matter; it's scrap now."

"So why'd ya trash it, dude? Blue screen of death?"

Donatello shook his head and sighed again. "No, I just felt like... throwing something."

Michelangelo rubbed his chin thoughtfully and took a look at all the tools scattered across the floor. He suddenly had a brilliant idea. He perked up and lifted a finger resolutely in the air. "Ya know, bro, if you wanna throw stuff you can always borrow my teddy bear. The little dude doesn't mind bein' chucked once an' a while, ya know? Does a lot less damage too..."

Donatello either thought the teddy bear-chucking proposal to be silly or he just hadn't heard his brother's offer. "I just got angry, that's all."

Michelangelo looked pensive, and then circled around to sit in one of Donatello's computer chairs. "Bro, that's not angry. When you get angry, you go do crossword puzzles or that Saduko thing... or whatever it's called. Dun deny it, I seen ya do it." Donatello couldn't argue. "But that," he continued, motioning to the broken machines scattered about. "That's a Raph moment." Donatello seemed to be clamming up again as he ignored Michelangelo's statements and started picking up his tools. So, Michelangelo pressed on. "What's eatin' ya? You can tell me anything, bro."

Donatello dropped a hammer on his foot and gritted his teeth at both the discomfort and Michelangelo's sentimental statement.

"You OK, brah?" Michelangelo questioned, spinning around and around in a circle in the swiveling chair.

"I wanted to be irresponsible," Donatello murmured from under his breath. "For once."

"Whuh?" Michelangelo drawled, stopping the chair after becoming rather dizzy.

"He wanted to know why he was the ONLY one who had to be responsible..." Donatello continued darkly while ominously standing up and shifting his tired eyes to Michelangelo.

"Who...?"

"Leonardo..."

"..." Michelangelo huddled down against the chair's backrest as he waited for Donatello to continue. When he could no longer bear the intent gaze of his brother's hardened eyes, he ventured another inquiry. "Wh-what about him?"

"Ever feel like you're under appreciated, Mikey?" Donatello suddenly asked, his head tilted up with an air of arrogance to give character to his question.

Michelangelo let out a reflexive guffaw and rocked forward in the chair. "Do I!"

"Like no matter what you do, and how hard you try to do the best that you can, in the end it's not important?"

Michelangelo's merriment began to wane as quickly as it had returned. He watched Donatello turned back around and kneel on the floor to flip the toolbox right-side up. He then proceeded to place the tools back inside. "Uh... are you like, writing a book about me, Donnie?"

"No," Donatello assured him as he delicately placed various sized screwdrivers back in their appropriate bin. "I suppose I'm just... resentful."

"Of Leo...?" Michelangelo dared, biting his lip as if uttering some sort of blasphemy. He expected Leonardo to suddenly reemerge from the shadows at the mention of his name.

Donatello paused direly, and then continued stowing the last of the screwdrivers in their designated slots. Michelangelo seemed to be reeling at this stretch of silence, so Donatello continued. "I understand what sensei sees in him, but..." He closed his fist and looked at the small scrapes on his tough skin and smirked. "Sometimes I think he made a poor choice."

Michelangelo was starting to feel a little uneasy about the conversation, but wanted to hear more and ask more questions. Donatello sensed Michelangelo's unrest and turned around from his position on the floor next to his toolbox. "I guess it's not my right to feel that way." Michelangelo shrugged at this warily. He was all for free-thought and free-action, but he knew that it mostly got him into trouble, especially where the wishes and will of Master Splinter was concerned. Suddenly Donatello's muscles visibly tensed and his fist squeezed tighter. "But when he had the audacity to ask 'why am I the only one who has to be responsible'... I could've strangled him."

Michelangelo's blue eyes grew wide at Donatello's euphemism to commit patricide. He then blinked several times and looked down when he realized Donatello must have been referring to their brother, not their father. He vaguely remembered the heated argument between Leonardo and Raphael over a month ago. He hadn't thought much of the statement; Leonardo was always saying things like that to Raphael when they bickered. He had not realized that Donatello had taken the comment to heart. Michelangelo shifted his weight in the chair and leaned forward, his blue eyes fixed to Donatello again. His brother exuded a heavy aura of frustration and lingering anger. He waited for Donatello to continue speaking, but instead of further explanation, Donatello stood up and lifted a weary arm in the direction of the door again. "You had better get to sleep, Mikey. It's late. Thanks for your help."

"What about the mess?"

"I'll take care of it."

"But Donnie-"

"Please, Mikey!" Donatello pleaded resolutely. He had a stern yet solemn look in his tired brown eyes that Michelangelo decided not to contend with. Instead, the orange-clad turtle nodded and stood up from the computer chair and shuffled toward the lab's door. When he looked back, Donatello had crouched back down and resumed picking up his tools in a meticulous, painstakingly slow manner, as if he was committing them to a mental inventory. Michelangelo knew it would take him forever to clean the room. With a sigh, he opened the door and slipped out into the dark hallway.


	2. Chapter 2

**No Longer Responsible**

_TMNT Fan Fic by teh Vilsy_

**A/N: **Peter Laird, Kevin Eastman, Mirage Studios… talk to them if you wanna know who's **responsible** for these lovable green fellows. Not me of course.

Thanks for the reviews and apologies that it took me long to get this chapter together. I apologize to any who find the characters to be, well, out of character. I've taken liberties to say the least. Hey, you go live in the jungle for a couple years and not come back a little crazy. Er, I've said too much. Enjoy. **OH YEAH.** This has a naughty word in it.

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**Chapter 2**

Sleep was neither blissful nor plentiful for Michelangelo; merely a few hours had passed before the ritualistic rude awakenings commenced. Leonardo, in all of his superior stealth maneuvering, slipped into his smaller brother's sanctuary without so much as a creak from the door or a shuffle from his footfalls. Michelangelo had taken to sleeping in a hammock on his back, and his loud, rhythmic snoring was enough to mask any sound an intruder might make. Leonardo prowled to the corner of the dark room, eyes glinting as he observed his slumbering sibling who clutched a stuffed panda bear under one arm. Leonardo's right hand reached up and his fingers closed around the hilt of one of his swords. The soft metallic scraping sound of steel being unsheathed from its scabbard was still not enough to elicit so much as a twitch from Michelangelo. It was as Leonardo feared and expected. Half a second later, the surgically sharp edge of a ninjato was poised on Michelangelo's collarbone and an unforgiving hand had grasped his forehead and wrenched his head back against his pillow to expose the sensitive flesh of his neck. Michelangelo jolted awake, blue eyes electrified with shock and instant fear. The strain on his neck muscles prevented any panicked sounds from reaching his mouth and his heart pounded ferociously as he felt cold steel press against the base of his jaw bone.

"Make a sound and you're dead," a cold, tinny voice hissed close to his ear.

Michelangelo recognized it to be Leonardo's well-practiced villain voice, but this did not bring him any relief. It was another test... it was always a test with Leonardo now. Michelangelo should have known it would be coming this morning. His mouth was dry from snoring and he wished he could swallow, but the blade was balanced so perfectly against his skin that any sudden movement would give him a nasty cut, tough dermal constitution or not. This is how Leonardo reprimanded him when he had exhibited a particularly disappointing feat of undisciplined behavior-- or so the blue-clad turtle had presumed from Michelangelo's false confession the night before. He had to make a quick, intelligent decision after being rudely awakened or Leonardo would declare him "dead" for the day. Michelangelo hated that with a passion. Should he not pass the test, his brothers would be asked, if not ordered, to ignore the orange-clad turtle's presence for the entire day. Severe punishment for one who so loves attention. Even Master Splinter would play along, thinking it a fitting exercise to improve Michelangelo's disciplinary awareness. Michelangelo abhorred it. But with lack of sleep, it was difficult for him to think quickly or accurately, despite normally being quite resourceful. His mind was still in a dream-state and the frightening reality of having a blade at his jugular was hard to calmly combat, even for a trained ninja. Worst of all, he vaguely remembered that his weapons were probably still lodged within the cushions of the couch. Suddenly, Michelangelo did the only thing that instantly came to mind.

"Shit!" he blurted out with some strain.

Leonardo's eye twitched. Ten seconds had passed- the limit- and Michelangelo did not so much as lift a finger, but simply spat out a dirty word. He dexterously flipped the blade around and gave Michelangelo an unpleasant push against the neck with the blunt side of the sword. He leaned down with narrowed eyes and whispered through gritted teeth. "You're dead, Michelangelo." He lifted the imposing sword and stood to his full height, turning to leave.

"No! Dude, that's not fair, Leo! I was totally baggin' some serious Z's. I was tired, bro!" Michelangelo wheezed as he struggled to sit up in the wobbly hammock. His voice cracked from exhaustion and lingering shock. To his further surprise, Leonardo had instantly whirled around and was up in his face.

"Not fair? What's fair about an intruder breaking into someone's home, holding them at gun point and shooting them after they steal their valuables?"

"Uh...?"

"Fair? What's fair about the Foot Clan sneaking into the lair and slitting your throat while you're 'baggin' some Z's'?"

"But..."

Leonardo's forefinger pressed sharply against Michelangelo's plastron and jabbed into it several times. "The Foot Ninja won't care how damn tired you are, Michelangelo, when they kill you. It's your own fault for staying up late and not being a master of your body or mind. You've got to learn that life isn't a game anymore."

"Dude, Leo, I know that but--"

"You're dead today, Michelangelo. Sorry."

"But!"

Before he could further protest, Leonardo had glided to the door and left to give his next complimentary wake-up call.

"Aww man!" Michelangelo groaned as he dropped his fist to his pillow. Mistakenly, he socked the plush panda square in its cute button nose. With a short gasp, Michelangelo fumbled to pick up the stuffed animal and hugged it gently. "Sorry Mr. P, didn't mean to clobber ya. Man, Donnie owes me big time!"

* * *

The soft whirring of servers was almost like a sweet lullaby to Donatello. He had, as he often did, fallen dead asleep with his head resting on his desk next to one of his many computer keyboards. The steady humming sound of the machinery was comforting after a long night's work, and sometimes it was enough to lull him to sleep without the need of a soft pillow or warm blanket. This was one of those nights; Donatello had returned his lab to a state of cleanliness and it had taken him the best part of an hour. Afterwards, he had sat at his desk to reflect on his conversation with Michelangelo and his general destructive actions, and had fallen asleep where he sat. His face was nuzzled snugly against his folded arms; his bruised right hand rested against his left elbow. The glowing green numbers on a nearby digital clock read "4:59".

Suddenly, there was a thunderous pounding on the door of the laboratory. Donatello jumped awake with a start and nearly fell out of the chair as his sudden movement caused it to roll backwards. "Donatello, are you in there?" a muffled voice inquired from the other side of the portal. Donatello's eyes were heavy with sleep and his muscles were equally resistant. He fumbled about until he could grab the edge of the desk and steady himself. "I'm coming in," the voice declared, much like a mother before barging in on her son desperately trying to hide dirty magazines before he got caught.

Though this was not the case with Donatello, it still brought him no joy to hear the lab door swing open. Though it was pitch dark save the blinking server lights, Donatello could sense the commanding presence of Leonardo in the doorway, much as he had stood a few hours before. He turned the chair around to face the doorway and stared in the direction of his brother.

"You're still in here?" Leonardo's voice came again, disturbing the pleasant and constant sound of the server hums. Donatello tried to speak but his voice had not quite caught up with his body and an exhausted wheeze was all that could escape his throat. "Well, come on," Leonardo continued. His voice was clear and he was obviously alert and attentive despite the hour. "Breakfast's on the table. We have to get moving if we want to keep on schedule."

Schedule, he says, Donatello thought as he squinted contritely at the clock. It was clearly a whole hour and a half earlier than he usually barged into their rooms to wake them. "Leonardo, it's 5am," he finally managed to whisper while rubbing his eyes.

Leonardo had already turned and dismissively raised a hand as he slipped back into the hallway. "Michelangelo is dead."

"WHAT?!" Donatello spat, making to stand up but the grogginess had not completely worn off and he stumbled clumsily after his brother, heart pounding frantically. "LEONARDO!" he cried in a strained and frightened voice, grabbing the door frame, wrenching his torso through the portal to glare at his brother's back.

"He failed the test for the day. Hurry up, we're five minutes behind."

Donatello's heart squirmed its way back down his throat and he heaved a sigh as he regained clarity. Leonardo's stupid "tests". Donatello was rarely the object of the leader's new sadistic wake-up calls-- mostly Raphael and Michelangelo suffered his "you lack discipline" moods. His mild-mannered, "go with the flow" nature tended to get him overlooked in matters of disciplinary action under Leonardo's new regime. Suddenly, Donatello's heart sank further than it was supposed to-- he realized that by all rights he deserved Michelangelo's punishment. The thought made him lose his appetite.

* * *

"Gee, it is really quiet around here without Mikey," Raphael announced in an airy voice between mouthfuls of breakfast cereal. "How very, very sad," he added with a grin over his spoon as Michelangelo shot him an annoyed smirk.

"Yes, his cheerful smile and unyielding energy will be greatly missed," Splinter mused, nodding his head down to mournfully sip at his cup of tea. Michelangelo perked up and crossed his arms over his plastron with a glimmer of pride. "It is however, deeply unfortunate that those qualities did him no service against a much more skilled and disciplined enemy."

"What!?" Michelangelo blurted out, momentarily forgetting the rule that he was not to speak. He nearly toppled over in his chair, taken off guard that his father would be so critical about his "demise".

"Shh, did'ja hear that? It's almost like ya can still hear his obnoxious voice on the wind," Raphael added whimsically, choking back a snicker.

Leonardo's expression was a strange mixture of pleasure and resonating disappointment as he fingered his cereal spoon impatiently. "I'm certain his spirit is in a better place. I suppose we can finally throw away all those comic books he insisted on wasting his time with."

Michelangelo looked as though he would explode, but he bit his lip at the comment.

Donatello poked at his granola muffin with little interest in taking part in the ceremonial jeering. During previous occasions when Michelangelo was "dead", they recited heartfelt, though overly dramatic eulogies about their dearly departed brother at the breakfast table, as though he was really dead and gone. The guilt of seeing his brothers broken by his "death" usually inspired Michelangelo to "do better". Now it seemed more like a free bullying session with extra pot shots. Most of it just futility bounced off of Michelangelo with no real lesson being learned from it as he impatiently waited for the day to be over. The injustice of it all was becoming more than Donatello could bear.

"Lay off, guys, he's not dead. This is ridiculous."

All heads turned to Donatello and he was given gazes of the utmost awe. Leonardo seemed the most put off by the statement and he angled an eye ridge testily. "It won't do any good to be in denial, Donatello. I know you cared about Mikey."

Donatello made a sound something like a horse snorting as he pawed at a few crumbs that had broken off from his pastry. He glared seriously at Leonardo. "Oh, and you don't?"

"Donatello," Splinter said softly, reaching a hand towards his brainy son. He was unsure of what to say for once in a very long time. Donatello was unresponsive to his father's outreach and continued to burn his gaze into Leonardo's eyes. Splinter thought better of intervening in the conversation, but his sharp eyes caught glimpse of damaged skin on his son's knuckles. It was unlike Donatello to keep an injury, however insignificant, untended to.

Raphael seemed perplexed as well. Normally, Donatello went along with the "exercise" without a hitch, and usually with a smile on his face after making a particularly difficult-for-the-average-person-to-understand joke at Michelangelo's expense. Lately, though, Donatello had been less enthusiastic about getting on Michelangelo's case. Raphael did not entirely approve.

The biggest sign of disapproval, however, came from Leonardo himself. "Fine," he declared suddenly, dropping his spoon and rising up from his chair abruptly. "There's no point in getting overly emotional."

Michelangelo's face curled into a pout-- he felt his death should be at least somewhat emotional... and that they could at least drop a few more compliments here and there.

"But I was just gettin' warmed up," Raphael insisted while pointing his spoon at Michelangelo in protest, as though taunting him was some sort of an entitlement.

Leonardo ignored this comment and straightened himself to his full height to look down at Donatello imposingly. "If he had been more responsible in his training, he might still be here. Now, into the dojo," he commanded.

Donatello's eye ridge quirked as he continued to gage Leonardo. The way his brother had spoken almost seemed like a direct challenge more so than a "got to keep on schedule" proclamation. And that word again... "Responsible". It burned him up inside.

Splinter looked from one son to the next, silently reading into the situation. He wanted to speak on the hostility he sensed between Donatello and Leonardo, but before he could finally interject, Leonardo had rallied his brothers, minus Michelangelo, to get up from the breakfast table. Raphael gave Michelangelo a smirk as he followed Leonardo's lead toward the dojo. Donatello begrudgingly complied with the daily routine and left his uneaten muffin behind. As he passed, he gave Michelangelo an apologetic look and mouthed, "I'm sorry." Splinter was left alone with the "ghost" who was sulking heavily in the seat next to him. The wizened old rat turned to Michelangelo and lifted a paw, as if to ask a question, but remembered his usually cheerful son was quite "dead". Michelangelo turned to him sullenly and just grimaced pitifully. Splinter looked back down at the table top with a sigh and stood up to begin clearing the table. He had left all further duty of training in Leonardo's capable hands, and would not interfere with or undermine the authority he had granted his son. That was the arrangement—the agreement. Yet, something did feel amiss.

* * *

"Weapons out."

"What happened to Kata?"

"We've wasted too much time. We're moving directly to sparring."

"Sounds good to me!" The sound of Raphael's sais unsheathing from his belt immediately followed.

The three "living" brothers had convened in the dojo which was dimly lit by candlelight. Donatello and Raphael stood side by side while Leonardo paced before them like a drill sergeant. Though Raphael was enthusiastic about skipping the technical stuff, Donatello did not like the glint in Leonardo's eyes as he slid each of his ninjato from their sheaths. It was not like Leonardo to skip the "basics".

Something seemed very surreal to Donatello- the vibes coming from the turtle next to him- Raphael- seemed so different from what he had felt only weeks ago. It was like Raphael had transformed in spirit. To some degree, it made Donatello sick deep in some small pit of his stomach. Raphael grinned gleefully beside him with his sais crossed in front of his face in anticipation, staring intently at Leonardo and awaiting further direction. Just over a month ago Raphael could hardly utter their blue-clad leader's name without a sneer of distaste, but now the two had forged an intense camaraderie that positively boggled Donatello's mind. In Leonardo's absence, Donatello could not convince Raphael to pass the salt at dinner, let alone control him in any way. Raphael had been so hostile and unresponsive, even violent and threatening at times toward him, and even more often than usual toward Michelangelo. Even following the recent incidents when they had all seemingly made amends, Raphael had never offered him nor Michelangelo so much as an apology for his treatment or behavior over the last year. It had been one of the most frustrating times Donatello could remember enduring outside of the hell the Shredder and the Foot Clan had put them through.

Of course, that was what this new rigorous training was all about-- the Foot Clan.

"Come on, weapon out, Donatello," Leonardo repeated in a voice as steely as the two ninjato clutched tightly in his hands.

That overwhelming obstinate feeling was consuming Donatello again as he thought about Michelangelo-- how the orange-clad turtle was suffering for his own anger that he had bottled up. All he had wanted to do was help and look where he was now. Being treated like a child when he should be with his brothers. "Michelangelo should be training with us," he suddenly said just under his breath.

Leonardo's eyes narrowed in disbelief that Donatello was still questioning his methods of teaching Michelangelo some much needed discipline.

"What's the hold-up, Poindexter? We ain't got all day," Raphael's scathing voice came. He had not heard Donatello's hushed comment and was, as usual, itching to brawl.

A moment of silence washed over the three of them, and Donatello belligerently stood before Leonardo, waiting for a response regarding Michelangelo's inclusion.

"All right," Leonardo began slowly, lowering his weapons ever so briefly. "If you refuse to draw, then I'll make you!"

Like blue lightning, Leonardo's blades jabbed forward straight toward his brother's chest. Donatello's eyes widened and he barely had the time to shift his weight to the side, swinging his body in an arc to narrowly dodge the point of the swords. If it was not for his quick mind, he would most likely have garnered some nasty scratches to his plastron, or worse. Instinctively he grabbed for his bo and pulled it up and out of his belt, positioning it defensively in front of his chest.

Raphael shifted out of the way, not expecting Leonardo's sudden attack either. He looked between his brothers and spun one of his sais around a finger. "Heh, maybe you should sit the first round out, Donnie. Ya seem a little slow this mornin'."

"We're not doing pairs today, Raphael," Leonardo suddenly interjected, angling his swords at Donatello's raised staff. "With Michelangelo dead," he added, and it seemed to get the reaction he wanted out of Donatello who tensed noticeably. "This morning's session will be free-for-all."

Raphael grinned even wider and he crouched lower to the ground. "Music to my ears."

* * *

Michelangelo watched as his sensei hobbled back and forth from their makeshift kitchen to the breakfast table, carrying one item at a time each return trip. This perturbed Michelangelo as he did not quite understand why Splinter was doing it. Was it to insight guilt? Michelangelo knew that Splinter could move quickly and dexterously when he needed to, and yet he shambled around like, well, an old man. It seemed unfair that his sensei demanded such maturity from him when the rat himself sometimes settled into what almost seemed like "playing pretend". Or maybe sensei really was getting old. Michelangelo banished the thoughts from his head and pushed his chair away from the table and stood up. He was not supposed to interact or speak with any of his family members, and that even included disturbing items around the lair while he was a "ghost". Nevertheless, he moved to where Leonardo and Raphael had been sitting and scooped up the dishes they had left behind. In his mind, being helpful was a less severe punishment than sitting around doing nothing. Splinter hobbled back out from the kitchen and looked up at Michelangelo in surprise.

"Ooooh, pay no attention... to the mysterious floating silverware..." Michelangelo crooned in his best haunted mansion-like voice. "Or the ghastly levitating cereal bowls... ooooohhh..." He tip-toed in a ridiculous fashion around Splinter and waggled the dishes around in the air. "For it is only I, the ghost of breakfast past! Ooooooh!" As he slipped toward the doorway to the kitchen, Michelangelo waited for the reprimand for violating the "rules" of being "dead". But to his surprise, it did not come.

Splinter merely nodded and offered a small but serious smile. "Thank you for your gracious assistance, oh ghost of breakfast past. It is truly honorable, that even in death, such a spirit would take time to aid an old rat."

"No prob, sensei," Michelangelo blurted out cheerily. He suddenly bit his lip and looked guilty. "Oops, I mean, the ghost of breakfast past says noooo prob, dude! Oooooooh spooky."

Something was wrong. They were ganging up on him. They had to be. This was the fifth time he found himself on his shell, reeling on the cold hard floor. When he would rush into the fray, Leonardo would out-maneuver him, and subsequently, Raphael would deliver a punishing blow to leave him vulnerable on his back. No time to think. His staff thrust upward and perpendicular to the length of his body. It collided with sharp steel and a sickening cracking noise burst forth. His muscles loosened and the pressure from his brother's immense upper body strength came barreling down on him. The splintering wood of his bo staff lightly touched the skin of his nose and both it and the blade became a blur in his vision. If he pushed back, he knew his weapon would snap in half. Where was Raphael? Standing aside in the distance? Was he laughing? No. Suddenly in a blur of green and red, the force bearing down on Donatello was lifted. Raphael's foot connected with Leonardo's side and sent him skidding across the dojo floor. Wincing, Donatello hastily threw his staff upward, swung his legs back for momentum, and pushed off of the floor with both hands. He launched himself back to his feet and held out his hands to catch his weapon, but Raphael's sai suddenly snapped at the air in front of him and his staff bounced to the floor a few yards away. Before Donatello could even curse under his breath, the wind was instantly knocked out of him by a powerful thrust kick to his plastron. The force sent him hurdling backward into the brick wall. The impact jarred his entire body and he felt himself become woozy. This was not shaping up well. They had not free-for-all brawled with this much ferocity since before Leonardo had gone away. Donatello was weary from lack of sleep and his brothers' attacks were relentless, oppressive, and seemingly chained against him. His defensive style was not holding up against it and his weapon had endured too many strong impacts. Ahead of him, Raphael's face glinted with a satisfied grin before he whirled around to clash weapons with Leonardo who had come at him from behind. This could, and would, go on forever, he thought. If he kept getting up, they would continue to knock him down. Experience said a three man free-for-all almost always resulted in two against one during each bout, and yet Leonardo and Raphael only seemed interested in getting Donatello out of the way so they could go at each other. Unfortunately for Donatello, if this was their intention, they were succeeding. To test his theory, he slowly pulled himself up from the dusty brick wall and shuffled laboriously toward his staff. Leonardo and Raphael were matching strength as they executed a sort of tug of war with their entangled weapons. Donatello reached down and picked up his bo staff and held it gently as he watched Raphael suddenly drop his weight downward, fall onto his back and use the leverage of his and Leonardo's locked weapons and a swift thrust with his foot to toss the blue-clad turtle over his head. He watched them scuffle for a few more moments, trading trash talk as they often did, and then he inspected his staff. It was bowing slightly in the middle and had a noticeable gash where Leonardo's ninjato had born into it. The splintering wood on the opposite side was a clear sign of its delicate condition. He considered leaving the dojo-- they probably would not notice. He would repair his weapon and perhaps even have time for a nap before the two of them were done with their sparring. He leaned his staff lightly against his right shoulder and called out, "I fold."

Then something unexpected happened. Leonardo froze for a fraction of a second, sidestepped Raphael's well-aimed jab with his sai, executed a perfect roundhouse kick to send the unsuspecting terrapin careening to the floor, and practically, to Donatello's eyes, teleported right into his face. The violet-clad turtle blinked as he was thrust against the nearby wall by the pressure of Leonardo's right forearm to his collarbone. "What did you say?" he demanded as if Donatello had just insulted every fiber of his being.

Donatello choked out an answer hastily. "I said... I fold! My... staff is... about to break--"

In the next instant, Leonardo drew up his left hand and pinned his fist and the butt of his sword against his right wrist, locking his hold against his brother's torso. The added leverage against Donatello's collarbone practically paralyzed the unsuspecting turtle. "Do you think the Foot Ninja would care? Do you think they would just let you walk away because you broke your weapon? Do you? Would it stop them from striking you down where you stand?" Leonardo's voice was dire, but Donatello could not help but sense a strange mania behind it, as if his fearless leader was simultaneously playing out some horrific scene in his mind while he barked out these rhetorical questions.

"Eh... what's goin' on?" Raphael inquired from the other side of the room, having just recovered to his feet from Leonardo's unexpected kick.

"Stop talking like you're out of your mind, Leo!" Donatello spat, struggling to budge from under his brother's overbearing hold. His staff was precariously wedged between his shoulder blade and Leonardo's locked arms. It was a natural reaction, but it occurred to him that the wood would shatter for certain if he tried to use it to jostle his brother off of him.

"Out of my mind?" Leonardo repeated in what sounded like amusement. He bore down even harder against Donatello's neck. "Seems like I'm the only one connected to reality here. I'm just trying to look out for you, to make you stronger. But I don't think that you're taking this seriously. I wonder if you ever do, Donatello. Somebody has got to take responsibility in our training."

Something sparked in the pit of Donatello's empty stomach. It was not hunger, nor was it that sickening feeling he got when he thought of how turncoat Raphael's behavior had been. It was something closer to the spark he felt late the night before. A seething anger that had been welling up at the base of his stomach and suddenly raged up. It was the spark that made him pick up his beloved electronic handiwork, chuck it against the wall and watch it shatter into pieces. The spark that gave him sudden clarity against his stronger and more muscular brother Leonardo in that next moment. Just as abruptly as Leonardo had pinned him to the wall, Donatello grasped the lower half of his bo staff with his right hand, and without hesitation, wrenched his arm upward. The worn weapon snapped in half instantly, and Donatello knew it would. Leonardo heard the sound, but could not process what was occurring quickly enough. A half second later, Donatello had struck him hard across the back of the head with the broken bottom half of his bo. Leonardo let out a groan as he reeled from the hit, his arms pulling away from Donatello's chest. With newfound fury, Donatello whipped his freed left arm around to grab the top half of his staff before it could slip to the floor. In a blinding motion, he swung the shortened weapon in a back-hand motion across Leonardo's face. The larger brother was knocked violently to the side, taken so off guard that he had not even time to steady himself before Donatello delivered one final blow—a swift and solid thrust kick to his chest that sent Leonardo sliding onto his back.

The two seconds that transpired afterward seemed to be frozen in time. Raphael stood in the center of the dojo, jaw slightly agape and eyes fixed on Donatello and Leonardo. It was not so much the severe blows Donatello had dished out from seemingly nowhere that had Raphael astounded, but the fact that his smaller brother was now straddling Leonardo with two splintering halves of his staff crossed at their leader's throat. Donatello was heaving deep breaths and his muscles were shaking and fighting to keep tense; the frustration and energy he had put forth had been taxing to say the least. Leonardo was disoriented for a moment, but soon regained awareness of the situation. Calmly, he looked up at Donatello with intense eyes, noticing the stuttering pieces of wood to either side of his neck. To Donatello's dismay, Leonardo simply offered him a smile. "That was good, Donatello," came his patronizing approval. Donatello wheezed out another breath, as though the dark, tumultuous thunderheads that clouded his anger-filled mind were being brushed away daintily by Leonardo's voice. As if a trick to break his guard, the lapse in Donatello's fury allowed Leonardo push his brother's weight from his chest. Donatello lifted the broken pieces of his staff unwillingly to catch his balance, and it was enough for Leonardo to roll to the side and get back on his feet. The dexterous turtle even had the grace and timing to sheathe his swords, then reach down and grab Donatello's wrist and haul him up before he in turn tumbled to the floor. The violet-clad turtle was in a daze; a moment ago Leonardo was at his throat yelling at him, and in the next moment he was patting him on the shoulder and rewarding him with idle praise.

Raphael had finally torn himself from his shock to march over to his brothers with an intrigue look on his face. "What was that all about? You get a second wind or somethin', Donnie?" Donatello gazed over at his red-clad brother with all the clarity of a mud puddle. "Well come on then," Raphael encouraged, whipping his sais up in a threatening position. "Show me what else ya got, bro."

"No," Leonardo said simply, releasing Donatello's shoulder and straightening his belt.

"Wha? No what?"

"That's enough. We're ten minutes over."

"What!?" Raphael's voice was full of disappointment and surprise that Leonardo would cut sparring short so abruptly, especially when it was getting interesting.

Donatello's eyes narrowed as he watched Leonardo dismissively stride towards the exit, as if nothing had happened at all. A soft but audible growl of frustration bubbled up from his throat, but his intense concentration was halted by a bump to the side by Raphael's elbow. "That's a'ight, kid. I'll getcha tomorrow, eh?" he mused as he slipped his sias into his belt and obediently followed after Leonardo to the next phase of their morning routine. Donatello glanced back at the two halves of his weapon which lay uselessly on the ground a few paces away.

"Yeah, tomorrow…"


	3. Chapter 3

-

**No Longer Responsible**

_TMNT Fan Fic by teh Vilsy_

**A/N: **Peter Laird, Kevin Eastman, Mirage Studios… talk to them if you wanna know who's **responsible** for these lovable green fellows. Not me of course.

Thanks for reading so far! Hope you enjoy this chapter-- there isn't much action, doh! Also, I'm writing as if there is actually correlation between the old live action movies and the 2k7 movie. I'm not sure if that's what they were going for or not but… pretend they're actually the same continuity!

* * *

They ran-- endlessly jogged and sprinted in intervals, for the sake of building endurance. Leaping over swiftly flowing rivers of putrid sewage, ducking under rusty, low-clearance pipes, they ran. Leonardo trudged tirelessly forward several strides ahead, controlling his two companions' gait and direction. They never took the same route on any given day; it was always a random journey and the followers had to be alert and flexible thusly. Though this was Raphael's proclaimed least favorite part of their training as it was neither a race nor combat-related, he obliged Leonardo and always kept tight on his heels. When questioned by Michelangelo as to why they must run for hours when nobody was chasing them, Leonardo had curtly explained, "After the strain of battle, it may become necessary to flee." They had found this to be true many times in their lives. So, after training in the dojo each morning, he led them on an hour (sometimes 2) run through the sewer system. The more exhausted they started out, the better. Donatello was plenty exhausted. Lack of rest, an empty stomach, a sore body and a spirit to match were all doing their best to impede his ability to keep up with his brothers. Even in his fatigue, he refused to give Leonardo or Raphael the satisfaction of seeing him falter. This went especially for Leonardo, who occasionally stole subtle glances over his shoulder to see if Donatello was indeed still there. He had fallen rather far behind, but not far enough not to see the nigh-unreadable glint in Leonardo's expression. Had he really been impressed by Donatello's outburst? Or had it been aggravation that Donatello had seen in the leader's focused eyes. In a flash, Leonardo skid across the slick concrete and spun into a different direction, leaping up into a graded outlet pipe. It took Raphael only a second to recalculate his momentum and swerve to the left to follow his lead. Donatello was becoming lost in the hypnotic "hisssssssss" of the flowing water, but pushed himself onward and willed his weary legs to persevere. With a labored grunt he jumped up into the pipe after the others and quickly leaned a hand on the inner surface to maintain balance. The pipe was constrictively narrow and he had to crouch low to keep from bumping his head. A quick inspection of the diameter lead him to believe that if his weapon was still in one piece and strapped to his back, he would have trouble fitting into the pipe at all. Water rushed down against his shins and he realized that running would no longer be possible—they were to climb up the steep and narrow pipe against the current. Leonardo and Raphael pressed on at a steady pace, arms and legs spread to push against either side of the enclosure as they spider crawled upward. Donatello tilted his head up and squinted, watching as they drew further and further away. He closed his eyes for a moment, calculating the length and gradation of the pipe based on the water speed and pressure he felt against his legs. Through this crude estimation, he hypothesized that it would be about a 40 foot climb at roughly a 35 degree angle. Raphael was already out of sight when Donatello opened his eyes again, and he wondered if he had briefly fallen asleep while number crunching. No matter. He had to catch up with them. The violet-clad turtle took a deep breath and plunged his body forward, catching the sides of the pipe with his hands and feet. Instead of skillfully scaling upward, he groaned out as a sharp pain gripped at his right hand. He slipped and fell face-first into the streaming water, flailing to regain his footing. He rolled onto his shell and pulled himself into a sitting position at the mouth of the pipe, holding his bruised hand and sputtering out the rancid water. Though not one to use inappropriate language, Donatello could not help but mutter obscenities under his breath. His hand had not bothered him all morning. Why now? It did not matter. It was imperative that he catch up. His muscles were jittery, his hand was burning, but he twisted around onto his knees and pushed all four limbs against the interior of the pipe and hoisted himself upward several feet. But it was not enough. The water kicked up mercilessly at him and he lost his footing again, sliding all the way back down to the bottom.

"Damn it!" he howled out, slamming both fists down into the water under his chest. More pain pierced his sore hand but he paid it no heed. "I know I can do this!" He was aware of the exact speed and pressure he needed to maintain and exert to scale the pipe just as easily if not more efficiently than his brothers had, but all the calculations in the world were useless if his body refused to keep up with his mind. He suddenly wished Michelangelo had been there. He would have looked back, yelled some encouragement, and asked if he was OK. He would have reached his hand down and pulled him up, and then made some ridiculous joke about the "Itsy Bitsy Turtle that crawled up the sewer pipe" which Donatello would have, a long time ago, laughed jovially at. Donatello waited and looked up into the dark emptiness of the pipe. He could no longer sense his brothers in the distance. "Guys?" he called out, his voice reverberating through the narrow tunnel. He waited a minute more, but the only response he received was the hissing of the water.

* * *

Raphael was getting bored. Keeping up with Leonardo had not proven to be any sort of challenge. They had slowed to a jog after reaching the top of the pipe and Leonardo was preparing to start another sprint as they approached the last leg of their circuit. Raphael concentrated on the rhythmic splashing of their footfalls, and then blinked when he realized his ears were only picking up two sets of feet. He turned his head and glanced behind him. "Donnie?"

"He fell behind," Leonardo offered plainly.

Raphael turned to his brother and quirked an eye ridge. "Huh. Ain't like him really. He usually keeps up. Heh, so much fer that second wind, eh?"

Leonardo regarded the comment with a guarded silence and focused on the terrain ahead of him.

"Eh… should we wait fer 'im?"

"No. This exercise is all about endurance."

"Yeah, I know that, Leo, but I thought ya said this was also about pretendin' t'run from the Foot or some garbage like that. Don't that mean we oughtta go back fer 'im? Or was that just t'shut Mikey up?"

Leonardo tensed visibly and he chose not to continue the conversation. He picked up the pace and his eyes shifted warily from side to side, and sometimes up toward the low ceiling. Raphael had noticed Leonardo often did this during their runs, and finally decided to call him out on it.

"Hey Leo, you doin' OK? You get a lil' weird when we're out here."

"If he's coming, he's coming," Leonardo proclaimed shortly. "He needs to get stronger and to take this seriously."

* * *

Michelangelo was grateful toward his sensei for not getting on his case. He had not read into it, but Splinter, though often stern and strict, had felt something of pity after the events at the breakfast table. Thus, the elderly rat pretended not to notice Michelangelo sneaking out of the lair with his skateboard clutched at his side while he thought his sensei was distracted by his soap operas. He was forbidden to do anything remotely "fun" while "dead" but the oppressive boredom of sitting idly was killing him. Michelangelo knew his brothers would be out for at least an hour, so he used his time wisely. He knew a tunnel not too far away from the lair that made for a decent half-pipe and had been skating back and forth for the best part of twenty minutes, doing hand plants every so often to listen for his brother's footfalls and to muffle the own sound of his guilty pleasure.

"I coulda beat Leo," he grumbled reassuringly to himself for the fourth or fifth time as he grinded precariously across the ridge of the half-pipe. "Totally coulda. I was just tired, s'all."

"Yeah, that was my fault. I apologize for that, Mikey."

Michelangelo let out a startled yelp and twisted his body to see where the phantom voice had suddenly come from. Unfortunately he seemed to forget that he was still on a skateboard. He ever-so-gracefully swayed to the side, utterly lost his footing as the board shot up into the air, and then he tumbled down the incline to the bottom of the pipe, landing harshly on his shell. Michelangelo winced at the nauseating "crack" that followed.

"Mikey! Are you all right?"

Michelangelo blinked several times and squinted as the dim overhead lights were blocked out by someone's torso. He knew it was one of his brothers, but the ringing sound echoing through his skull like a church bell was masking the tone of the voice. "Help, I'm a turtle and I can't get up?" he offered in a sheepish, cracking voice. Afterward he cringed, bracing himself for the slap to the head for making such a lame joke and a lecture for being out of the lair. To his surprise he received neither.

"How many times are you going to use that one? It's getting a little stale, don't you think?"

"Dude, it's classic!" Michelangelo stated in his defense. He saw a hand reach down to him expectantly and he reached up slowly to take it in his own. With a fair amount of strain, he was pulled up to a sitting position. His vision and hearing began to focus and he recognized the unique features of Donatello. "Oh, besides, you used to love that one, bro." Michelangelo thought he caught Donatello's serious expression falter into a smile for but a moment and he grinned in satisfaction. "I can explain—" He winced again as recollection bore down mercilessly on him. "Oops, not supposed to talk to you. Or I'd explain what I'm doin' out here. But I can't, so I won't. Cuz I'm dead. And that means no talking. So I'm gonna stop. Right now."

"Relax, Mikey. I don't care about that," Donatello interrupted calmly with a dismissive shrug to stop Michelangelo before he rambled himself to death for real. "Are you hurt?"

"Huh?" Michelangelo regarded the question with such confusion that it was obvious he had forgotten the fall he had taken not two minutes prior. Then, something clicked in the orange-clad turtles mind. "Oh! Nah, I'm cool, brah. I've had gnarlier wrecks than that, for sure, heheheh. Er…" He watched as his brother lifted and lowered each of his arms one at a time, tested his elbows by flexing them, poked and prodded at his forearms, grasped his jaw and moved his head gently back and forth. "Seriously, Donnie, I'm fine." A similar expression of concern came over Michelangelo as he began to notice how spent Donatello appeared. "What about you though? You're lookin' like, kinda ragged, bro."

Donatello chose to dodge the question. He cradled Michelangelo's cheeks in his palms and tilted his brother's head to the side. "That doesn't hurt?"

"Ow! No it's fine, dude," Michelangelo insisted, looking sideways at his brother with an expression twisted in pain. He let out a labored sigh as Donatello righted his neck again. Following a bit more rubbing and prodding, Donatello seemed satisfied that Michelangelo had not sustained any real injuries from his fall. "So where's Leo and Raph? I thought you guys were doin' that running thing. Y'know, like you're bein' chased mercilessly by a demonic rock-man army from another dimension commanded by a freaky little talking brain… or maybe a platoon of rampaging triceratops dinosaurs from a different planet with laser guns!"

Donatello glared long and hard at Michelangelo who just beamed up at him with a glint of excitement in his ice blue eyes. "Mikey, where in the world do you come up with this outlandish stuff? Are you sure you didn't hit your head?"

"Naw, saved by the ol' shell as usual, brah," Michelangelo replied with a thumbs-up. "But ya know, none of that would be as crazy as those monsters we tangled with, huh?"

Images of the beasts that terrorized the city mere weeks ago flashed through Donatello's mind's eye. They had seen quite a few things in their young lives, but nothing as inexplicable or bizarre than the events "Yaotl" had set into motion. "Yeah… don't remind me. Here, let me help you."

"Thanks bro," Michelangelo smiled as Donatello drew to his feet with some strain and pulled his brother up after. "Hey Donnie… do you think what that Foot chick said was true…? Y'know, about…"

Donatello waited for Michelangelo to finish his thought, but the blue-eyed turtle merely grimaced as if his own words frightened him. It did not matter anyway. Donatello knew full well what Michelangelo was asking. He had asked it at least one hundred times in the past several weeks, and each time it got harder and harder for him to say. Yet another sickening feeling welled in the violet-clad turtle's stomach. None of them wanted to believe that the Shredder was still alive, let alone leading a squad of authentic ninja. None of them, that is, save for Leonardo. The possibility was the very thing that drove their leader. Donatello did not know the best way to answer the question, but luckily, Michelangelo had an extremely short attention span. "Hey, did'ja see where my skateboard went?"

"I think it landed in New Jersey, Mikey."

Michelangelo grimaced at Donatello's estimation as if his brother was being serious. He turned and trotted further into the pipe, searching about for his beloved skateboard. Donatello rubbed his shoulder and turned to head back toward the lair. He was wiped out, still wet and sore from his efforts during the sewer run. He did not feel much regret for giving up-- his brothers had not seemed to notice or care that he had fallen behind. Something about it seemed degrading and deliberate, and that was a game he was not interested in playing. He jolted to a halt then whirled around when Michelangelo cried out in agony.

"Aw dude, no way!"

"Mikey, what's wrong?"

"I wasted her, dude! Look, she's all torn up!"

"Let me see it. Hmm. Well the deck didn't crack and the baseplate is still fairly secure. That's pretty amazing considering the velocity and the impact it sustained. I see what you mean though. The truck is coming loose here. There's some splintering there. The hardware probably got jarred from the force of impact and is tearing into the wood."

Michelangelo bit his lip and shook his head, pointing to some long marks that ran down one side of the belly of the board. "Naw dude, I mean those!"

Donatello let out what seemed to be a very amused laugh. "Mikey, those are grooves from the wheels. You put those there yourself."

"Huh...?"

"Seems to me like your trucks have been loosening on one side. See, this side here? You lose calibration that way if you don't keep them equally tightened. Then when you bank a turn, your wheels start to press into the deck and make these scuff marks. If it gets too loose your wheel will lock up and probably send you flying." Michelangelo stared at him in transfixed awe. "Well, don't worry," Donatello went on quickly. "We can sand the scuffs and these splinters right off and refinish the wood. I should have some old hangars lying around in my workshop that we can use to repair the nose truck here. Might have to find some larger hardware to compensate sanding the holes out."

Michelangelo wanted to speak but he was dumbfounded that Donatello was spewing out knowledge about one of his "childish" pastimes. "Uh…" was all he could manage with a perplexed look on his face.

Donatello blinked at him and then shook his head. "Come on, if you want me to fix it." Without further ado, he turned and continued his intended journey back to the lair. A few moments later, Michelangelo snapped out of his stunned state and hastily trotted after him.

* * *

The two brothers snuck back into the lair-- or rather, Michelangelo tip-toped while Donatello shuffled through casually, rotating his arm and rubbing his shoulder. Splinter, if he noticed, raised no alarm at their presence. They entered Donatello's lab, and the violet-clad turtle finally decided to do something about his tender right hand. After rummaging through some first aid supplies, he managed to disinfect and wrap a length of gauze around his knuckles. Michelangelo watched him warily, nervously stealing glances at the door and into the shadows the bright lights cast into the corners of the room.

Donatello slunk into a chair positioned in front of one of his many workbenches. Michelangelo followed warily, shifting his eyes about as if he was walking into some sort of trap, or worse, a practical joke. Donatello was acting strangely enough as it was—the night before was clear evidence of that. Far be it from his brainy brother to step out of the boundaries set by authority. So why was he so casually and deliberately going against Leonardo's ground rules? Even in his younger days he would not be so belligerent. But, as Michelangelo began to recall, Donatello was no longer like he had been when he was younger—easy-going and fun-loving. He and Donatello had been best friends.

Michelangelo watched as Donatello cranked apart a vise and lifted a hand toward the skateboard. As he nervously handed his brother the deck, a barrage of memories suddenly came rushing back to him...

_"This place used to be fun…"  
_  
_They were running along the rooftops in the crisp night air, teamed together in their first game of ninja tag in over a year. "D'ya think we can beat them, Donnie?" He gave his brother a boost with his wrists and launched him onto a higher ledge. Donatello reached down and expertly hoisted Michelangelo up after him._

_"Of course we can, Mikey. Raph and Leo don't stand a chance." There was a rare playfulness in his voice._

_He and Donatello were sitting on the ledge of a billboard, so happy and thrilled to have right to cast mocking jeers down at their feuding brothers, who arrived at the finish point much later than they._

_They were standing together in victory against the Stone Generals… he saw the glee and excitement in Donatello's eyes that had been missing for so long, since before Leonardo had gone away._

Another memory washed over him… even further back than before… several years…

_Sitting under the storm drain gazing up at the pale moon… waiting for the pizza guy. Donatello was coming to join him—but it was not the conservative brother that he knew now who was serious, worrisome, as critical as the others, and always content to passive-aggressively go with the flow. This was a different Donatello. He smiled. He made bad jokes. He was riding…  
_  
"Hey Donnie!" Michelangelo sudden spat out, reemerging from his trance-like reverie and causing Donatello to nearly jump out of his shell.

"What is it? And would you give me that already?" Donatello smirked as he snatched the skateboard from his brother, placed it wheels-up within the vise and spun the crank in the opposite direction to tighten it.

Michelangelo looked around, as if lost or confused as to where they were. "Hey, you used to skateboard all the time, didn't ya, bro?" he finally said, snapping his fingers and pointing at his brother like they were meeting for the first time.

The violet-clad brother turned his eyes to Michelangelo and pondered for a moment before finally confirming. "Yeah, I guess I did. That was a while ago."

Michelangelo's blue eyes lit up like neon signs and he grinned wide as if unlocking some deep, forgotten mystery of life. "Yeah, yeah I remember! No wonder you know so much stuff about skateboards. Guess I kinda forgot you used to shred."

Donatello merely nodded and went back to preparing for surgery, turning to his toolbox and fishing out a hexagonal wrench.

Michelangelo took a seat and watched with bated breath as his brother went to work on removing the offending parts of the board. A few minutes passed and the orange-clad turtle noticed, for the second time, that his brother was looking quite weary despite his willingness to do repairs. He also recalled that his previous question had been adeptly dodged. "Donnie?"

"Yes?"

"Are you like, feelin' OK? And what happened to Leo and Raph?"

Donatello lifted his eyes from his work and regarded Michelangelo jadedly. Before he could answer, as if on cue, a loud knock came to the lab's door.

"Donnie?" It was Raphael, using is outdoor voice.

"W'uh oh," Michelangelo cringed under his breath, looking to Donatello with his familiar guilty expression. "I'm busted…"

"Relax," Donatello instructed, dismissively waving the wrench at his brother and looking back to his labor.

"Should I hide?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Mikey."

"Donnie, you in there? Leo's lookin' fer ya. Masta' Splinta said you was in here." Figured. Splinter had eyes in the back of his head.

"But Donnie, if Leo knows I'm in here and you're fixin' my skateboard when I'm supposed t'be--"

"I'm busy, Raph," Donatello simply stated, tightening the vise a bit more around the deck of the skateboard as his patience started to come under equal tension.

"Uh, sure, but…"

The door suddenly swung open and Michelangelo swallowed hard as he drew back in the chair, suffering from a spell of Déjà vu. However, as he gauged the figures in the doorway, he did not think any amount of acting would fool Leonardo this time around.


	4. Chapter 4

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**No Longer Responsible**

_TMNT Fan Fic by teh Vilsy_

**A/N: **Peter Laird, Kevin Eastman, Mirage Studios… talk to them if you wanna know who's **responsible **for these lovable green fellows. Not me of course.

Thanks again for reading! The kind reviews are really encouraging and I'm happy, and frankly surprised, at what a positive response the story is receiving. I'm working extra hard to try not to disappoint! Hope you enjoy Chapter 4!

* * *

Raphael's robust frame nearly took up the entire door frame. Those long months of excessive if not obsessive weight lifting and secret vigilantism had certainly done wonders for his build. Michelangelo often joked that both he and Donatello combined could fit easily into Raphael's shell. Raphael always regarded this comment with a raised fist. But, Michelangelo found nothing funny about it now. Despite how intimidating Raphael was, it was Leonardo that had him shaken.

Effortlessly, the blue-clad turtle moved Raphael aside, seemingly without having to touch him. With a vexed grimace, Raphael yielded and stepped back into the hall as if pushed aside by Leonardo's sheer will. He moved through the door and stood just inside the room, staring at Michelangelo for a few silent moments before looking to Donatello. He was treated to a view of the back of his brainy brother's head; Donatello was still stubbornly ignoring their presence. Michelangelo was practically trying to retract into his shell from his seat beside the workbench as Leonardo's scrutinizing gaze returned to him. He looked as riled as a parent whose children had misbehaved more times than he could bear.

"I cannot begin to fathom what you two are doing in here," he began in a low tone, so deep within his throat that it sounded like the soft rumbling before a clap of thunder.

Donatello twitched visibly. The condescending way in which his brother had spoken had sparked the pang of anger that had been continuously stewing in the pit of his stomach. He finally placed the wrench down on the bench top and turned the chair in the direction of the doorway. Before he could open his mouth, Michelangelo stood up abruptly and spoke.

"Leo, look I can explain," he said resolutely, gathering the courage to defend Donatello and himself if possible. "Donnie was just--"

"Michelangelo!" Leonardo bellowed abruptly and took a single step forward. It was enough to elicit an "eep!" from the orange-clad brother and sucked out any bit of confidence in his sweet-talking that he had left. Leonardo had often reprimanded him in the past, but there was a shortness and almost ruthlessness in his voice that gave Michelangelo the chills. "Get out. Right now."

"Whuh...?" It felt so much like Deja Vu.

"Get out!" Leonardo said more forcefully, pointing behind him to the hallway where Raphael stood, somewhat anxiously.

"No."

Leonardo's brown eyes turned intently to Donatello as if he had slapped him across the face without getting up from his workbench. "What...?"

Donatello's right hand clenched into a fist as it rested on his knee, and he did not allow Leonardo the chance to further question his outburst. "I said no, Michelangelo does not have to 'get out'." He slowly stood up; his tired muscles forcing him to assert his position. "This is my lab and I invited him in. You don't have the right."

If Leonardo had hair, it would have been bristling on end. Instead, in a few quick strides he had crossed the room and was standing uncomfortably close to Donatello. "And you, Donatello," Leonardo began as if the previous few statements had been inconsequential. "I'm finding it difficult to tolerate this sudden behavior of yours."

"Oh? And what behavior would that be?" the violet-clad brother inquired with a hard tinge of arrogance cast into his voice.

Michelangelo bit his lip and surveyed all three of his brothers-- first to Leonardo and Donatello who looked like they would burn holes through each other with their gazes, then reluctantly to Raphael who had moved his way back into the entry way with crossed arms.

"Well, let's see," Leonardo mused sarcastically, rubbing his chin for effect as he turned to face Michelangelo, feigning deep thought. "First of all, you suddenly find it necessary to not only question, but to interfere with Michelangelo's training. You know the rules and yet here you two are, breaking them like it's all fun and games."

Michelangelo drew back again; the guilty feeling that he was the cause and focus of this confrontation was consuming him.

Donatello tilted his head slightly at the statement. "Training? I wouldn't call it training anymore, Leonardo. It's more like some sort of power trip, or some weird residual fear tactic you picked up from the jungle."

Leonardo ripped his line of sight away from Michelangelo and looked as if Donatello had once again struck a blow without lifting a finger. Raphael stirred in the doorway, looking between Donatello and Leonardo with a rare air of uncertainty as if he wanted to step into the argument but, for once, was at a loss for words.

Donatello took the opportunity to continue. The words coming out more confidently, forcefully. "I understand that you're trying to strengthen us, Leonardo, but alienating Mikey isn't going to make us a stronger team."

"He brings it on himself, Donatello," Leonardo insisted, pointing an impatient finger at Michelangelo. "This childish behavior he insists on pursuing-- he'd rather be playing video games and skateboarding than focusing on what's important. And you, Donatello, are encouraging him?" He motioned to the skateboard that lay securely in the vise on the workbench. "What's gotten into you?" he added with a vibe of disappointment and confusion in his voice.

"Maybe if you stopped treating him like a child, he wouldn't act like one!" Donatello interjected, taking a step forward and standing as tall as he could to compete with Leonardo's solid presence. "He's your brother, Leonardo! We're standing here talking about him like he's not even right there!" He pointed to Michelangelo who wanted nothing more than to phase into the wall. "You've got to stop treating us like there's something wrong with us!"

"Oh, so this is my fault again, huh?" Leonardo seethed, lifting a hand to press against his chest. "Yes, let's go down that dusty road again, shall we?" Raphael seemed more uncomfortable in his position at the door, and Michelangelo could tell it was taking everything in him to not burst into the conversation.

"Don't put words into my mouth! And stop with that high and mighty--"

"Discipline," Leonardo suddenly barked, cutting Donatello off, "is what this team needs to keep together. And if Michelangelo doesn't learn it, or you, Donatello, falter in yours, we're going to have weak links in our chain." Donatello's dark eyes were full of anger and frustration. Leonardo knew, or at least thought he knew, that he had struck at the right spot to put Donatello back into place. Back into his right mind. "Sensei charged me with the task of bettering myself, so that I could keep us focused, strong, disciplined. I've accepted my responsibility and I intend to honor it."

"Father has given me a charge of my own," Donatello promptly retorted in a calm but shaky voice. His anger was bubbling deep within his eyes but the aghast look on Leonardo's face was enough to keep him placidly satisfied. "Master Splinter told me that I must be strong when my brothers are weak if we are to stay a family." He glanced over Leonardo's shoulder at Raphael, remembering all of the times he had to endure the bully-like disrespect from his own brother. "And right now, brother, I'm telling you that you're the weak link."

"How dare you?" Leonardo demanded in a slow voice.

Donatello stood firm. "You're paranoid, overbearing, you don't listen, and you're alienating us. You act like Michelangelo and I are slowing you down. Like we've been sitting around being completely useless for two years. I'll have you know that we were the only ones doing anything around here to try to keep it together!" Raphael twitched at this statement, but continued to stand wordlessly  
at the door. "While you were on your great pilgrimage, Michelangelo worked very hard doing some really unglamorous work, and he didn't complain to me once. He took it all in stride and still had a smile on his face when he came home everyday. I was too jaded to appreciate it then, but if that's not exhibiting your precious discipline, I don't know what else you can ask from him. It's a lot more than I can say for your wingman over there."

"Hey," Raphael finally remarked sternly, unfolding his arms and lifting a defensive finger towards Donatello.

"No Raph, let me finish." Donatello directed his attention back to Leonardo's blank face. He felt everything that he had been holding inside for the past couple of weeks finally burst at the seams. "I'm tired of you chastising Michelangelo for all of his faults and ignoring his strengths. When the chips are down, I've seen his dedication and loyalty, but that doesn't mean anything to you? And I may not be the strongest fighter, or have the most endurance, but I'd lay my life down for any of you guys. I wish you wouldn't feel like you need to beat that fact out of me every time we're in the dojo. You think saving our family is all about fighting? Both of you? You know there's more to our lives than just being your soldiers."

Leonardo tensed, remembering a distant night on the rooftops in the harsh, pouring rain. The spiteful, belligerent scowl on Raphael's face. I'm through takin' orders... He never thought he would see that look on Donatello's face, and yet there it was. Staring him down without restraint. After all he had done-- all he had gone through in the steaming hot jungles of Central America, alone, by his master-- his own father's wishes. The long, cold, dark nights, alone. All in the name of family. And this was the gratitude he received in exchange? It was happening all over again. Donatello was trying to upset the balance that he was working so tirelessly to maintain--the strength he was trying to build in them. Why? Why won't they understand? Why won't they cooperate? Why aren't they afraid of what might happen to them if they don't become stronger? Afraid of what might be lurking undetected in the darkness of the city at that very moment? Why won't they listen to reason?

You've got to listen to reason. You'll destroy us all.

A dark, broken memory gripped Leonardo's mind's eye. A horrible blackness washed over his consciousness and an immense figure of evil held him high above the ground, dangling helplessly from an iron grasp.

Then so be it.

Leonardo was forcefully thrown to the ground. The gigantic, ominous aberration loomed before him, intent on extinguishing him and the three who stood behind him, whom Leonardo held so very dear.

He felt a hopelessness and a despair that shook his very soul. If only they had been stronger, this monster might have been vanquished forever. Was it his own weakness that brought this torture upon his loved ones? He could not let it happen again. Not at any cost.

For a moment, Donatello glared into the glazed over eyes of his brother, searching desperately for the warmth and sense that use to be housed there. Now he could only see a transfixed mania of someone locked in a distant trance, and then something even more frightening-- a dark stare, as if Leonardo no longer recognized him and was gazing at a hated enemy.

"I won't let you do this. I won't let you destroy my family."

"What are you talking a-"

Donatello's face suddenly whipped to the side as Leonardo's curled fist connected to his jaw like a truck slamming into a brick wall. In an instant, a streak of red spilled from the corner of Donatello's mouth. It occurred so quickly that the others had difficulty registering what had happened before Donatello had stumbled backward, his shell impacting against his workbench with a jarring "thud."

"Donnie!" Michelangelo cried out, stretching his arms out as if to catch his brother, but he was too far away.

"Leo!" came Raphael's bellowing and clearly shocked voice. He quickly moved from the door toward the blue-clad turtle, yellow eyes blazing. "Are you out of your fing mind?!" Still, he could not reach them in time.

"Bastard!" Donatello suddenly hissed, flecks of blood spraying from his agonizingly sore mouth. Despite all his body had endured that day, he lunged forward and threw himself at Leonardo, head held low as he football tackled the larger turtle to the hard tile floor. Raphael and Michelangelo's instincts kicked in and they were upon their two brothers in the next instant. Raphael's strong arms were hardly able to squeeze between the tight grapple Donatello and Leonardo were locked in. Leonardo's hands were gripped firmly around Donatello's biceps in a desperate yet fierce attempt to pull his brother's arms away from him. Donatello's dark eyes shone with a vengeful rage as he channeled every bit of strength he had within him to clamp his hands around Leonardo's shoulders. Michelangelo was crouching down behind Donatello with his arms held around his back, trying with all of his might to pull his brother off of Leonardo. Donatello seemed hell bent on tearing Leonardo's torso out of his own shell.

"Knock it off, damn it!" Raphael growled, frustrated that for all of his strength he could not seem get a good enough grip to pull the two apart.

"Guys! Please stop!" Michelangelo pleaded in a voice gripped with fear and anguish as he tugged fruitlessly on Donatello's belt. He wished that he had spent more time listening to Donatello's excited monologues about the wonders of quantum physics. Then perhaps he could teleport back in time to when the four of them were not at each other's throats. He would even settle for the few short weeks prior that they seemed so happy again. But now, things were falling apart more than ever before. It broke his heart to see his brothers like this, and especially to think it was all because of him.

"That does it," Raphael sneered, drawing back for a moment to crack his knuckles. "Now I'm gonna hafta get serious."

"Yamete!" a raspy but loud and commanding shout echoed over the commotion. If no other force on the Earth could stop what was occurring in that room, Splinter's voice could and did, for a moment. The four turtles, either sprawled across the floor or kneeling beside their brawling brothers all turned to look at the short, furry rat that stood in the doorway, leaning on his walking stick. A stern, angry, yet confused look rested across Splinter's visage, and his old but sharp eyes trailed across each of his sons. During any other scrap, this would have been the end of it. But Donatello's fury would not subside so abruptly. He refused to yield from his position of nearly getting his aching fingers around Leonardo's neck. Michelangelo looked to his father with pleading eyes, and Splinter knew that his intervention was needed more than he realized. He made a quick survey of what was transpiring: Raphael, tense but not hostile. Michelangelo, frightened. Leonardo, in a defensive situation but visibly riled. Donatello, furious and aggressive. In the next moment Splinter swiftly moved over to his sons, brushing by Raphael and tapping at Michelangelo with the bottom half of his walking stick as an indication to move away.

"Stop this," he repeated, in English, as he crouched down and set his staff on the floor. When his two sons refused to acknowledge his instruction, he reached his arms out and placed one hand on Leonardo's wrist, and then the other on Donatello's. With a firm press of his thumb against a pressure point, both Leonardo and Donatello's unforgiving grapple was instantly broken as each of their arms went limp. Leonardo seemed to snap out of his trance when this occurred, but Donatello kept at Leonardo's neck with his good arm. Splinter watched for a moment in awe, then gave quick, commanding nods to Raphael and Michelangelo. The other two brothers heeded the silent order and took a hold of Leonardo and Donatello, pulling them apart with much greater ease. Donatello was growling like a rabid dog, struggling tooth and nail against Michelangelo's strength as he was pulled to his feet. Raphael had an easier time, as Leonardo seemed to be aware of himself again and did not resist. Splinted reached down and picked up his walking stick. "What is the meaning of this?" he demanded, looking to Leonardo for answers. The son whom he had entrusted to be the leader of his family seemed perplexed and unresponsive. In growing anger, Splinter turned to Donatello for an explanation, but became even more concerned and startled when he saw blood mixing with saliva trail down his smaller son's jawline. "What has happened here?" he yelled louder than any of them could recall in recent history. An awkward silence fell over the room, save for the frenzied, guttural groans from Donatello. Splinter turned to his violet-clad son and Michelangelo who wished he knew what to say, but was having a hard time restraining Donatello. "Donatello! Please, calm your anger, my son," Splinter pleaded in an austere tone as he reached up to place his slender fingers across his son's forehead. Donatello tilted his head down, breathing hard and heavy, and he regarded his father with a type of agony that Splinter could not recall seeing in his usually calm son. Without anymore hesitation, he returned his gaze to Leonardo, who looked upon him with an emotionless, blank expression. Donatello could not stand it any longer. With a new found burst of energy, he let out an anguished vociferation and wrenched away from from Michelangelo's arms. Before Raphael could block his path, Donatello had slipped past and hurdled out into the hallway.

"Donnie, stop!" Raphael shouted, turning to sprint after him, but Splinter moved into his way and obstructed him with his raised staff.

"No, Raphael. Let him go."

"What!?" Raphael blurted with a flourishing hand gesture, as if all the times he had run out similarly without resistance had been an appalling action.

"Michelangelo."

"Sensei...?" Michelangelo whimpered, wondering what his father could possibly have to say to him while Donatello had fled, bleeding and furious, from them.

"Go. See to your brother."

"Yes, sensei."

He bowed quickly and ran past his father and his brothers without giving them a second look as he left the room. Raphael gave Splinter a perplexed look as if to say, "why him?" But Splinter merely shook his head and glared at him and Leonardo expectantly. Leonardo watched despondently, then glanced to Raphael who stared at him with a questioning anger.

"There had better be an explanation for this," Splinter began, jabbing the end of his staff against the floor to garner their attention. "Or I fear much damage has been done today."


	5. Chapter 5

**No Longer Responsible**

_TMNT Fan Fic by teh Vilsy_

**A/N: **Peter Laird, Kevin Eastman, Mirage Studios… talk to them if you wanna know who's responsible for these lovable green fellows. Not me of course.

Finally finished this chapter! Sorry for the delay as usual. I'm quite (sadly) proud to announce this being my FIRST TIME EVER posting a fifth chapter to any of my stories. Pitiful eh? Very much thanks for the support! This chapter isn't too involving, but is a segway into the next crazy part of the emo adventure! I hope you enjoy!

* * *

Everything hurt. His jaw throbbed with a persistent, resonating pang of pain that caused a headache to surge behind his weary eyes. The taste of blood still lingered against his tongue as a reminder of the unexpected blow. The dull ache in his bandaged right hand refused to let up. His left arm tingled wildly like so many stabbing needles as it lolled about uselessly at his side, still immobilized for the most part. It was a wonder any his muscles obeyed at all, let alone carried his body swiftly through the dark tunnels of the sewer. His mind was a nebulous fog of distraught contemplations.

_How could he do that to me?_

_Is he really out of his mind?_

_Am I the crazy one?_

_Why do they all treat me like this?_

_I can't stand it any more._

_I need to get out of here._

It was all Donatello could do to focus on his strides. He was running on an auxiliary strength-- his sheer will propelled him forward despite it all. His right hand whipped across his chest to grasp at his left arm, pulling it tight against his side to keep it from flailing about lamely as he sprinted. How utterly degrading. Each footfall that splashed into the cold, congealed sludge that lined the sewer floor was increasingly painful, both physically and emotionally. He longed to be anywhere else. The winding tunnels hazed together in his vision and became strangely unfamiliar despite his knowledge of each twist and turn like the back of his hand. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, a dozen sharp slits of white light jutted out like daggers and assaulted his senses. Donatello squinted and nearly lost his footing as the bright sunlight poured against his face. A large barred outlet pipe lay before him, dutifully gushing water out into the river beyond. It was one of their standard exits into the outside world, and a way back home. But the antagonizing sun was keeping watch, scowling at Donatello through the narrow openings between each metal pipe that acted like a prison door. The violet-clad turtle stood at the opposite end of the tunnel and closed his eyes slowly.

_"Father, father, look down there! It's so pretty and wow! It feels so warm!"_

_"Yes, my son. That is the sun."_

_"I'm gonna go touch it,' kay?"_

_"NO, Donatello! You mustn't go near there!"_

_"...But why? It's so pretty..."_

_"Do you see the teeth?"_

_"Teeth?!"_

_"Yes, it is a mouth, filled with sharp teeth. Though it smiles with warmth, and appears welcoming, it will swallow you up and take you away from me and your brothers. You are never to go near it. Do you understand, my son?"_

_"Yes, sensei..."_

His eyes opened again, dark brown irises flashing back to the present. For a moment, the overwhelming fear he felt as a child at his father's side washed over him like a tidal wave. He whipped his head to the left, expecting to see a spry, younger, tawny rat standing beside him. His bleary vision refocused on reality to reveal that he was of course, alone.

He sighed. Feeling that way was ridiculous. He was grown. He had been out in the day countless times. He knew the stories told to him as a boy were all lies to protect him from the human world. But he had been mostly away from the sun for quite some time since Leonardo had gone-- wasting away in front of a computer, chained with a headset, forced to speak to all manner of unforgivably ignorant humans. Not to mention he was bound to the shadows by the way of the ninja. Even Raphael, as unorthodox as he chose to behave, had slept away the daylight hours in favor of the night prowl. Only Michelangelo had ventured out into the day and felt the warm sun on his skin.

_-splish splash splish splash-_

Hurried footsteps approached, echoing through the pipe from a far distance. Donatello wrenched himself from his reverie and spun around to press his shell against the curved wall of the pipe. _Leonardo coming to finish me off?_ he imagined with more seething sarcasm in his thoughts than he was accustomed to. Sucking in his breath, he concentrated on the noise-- the frequency of the steps and the heaviness of them. Was it Michelangelo? He could not be absolutely certain; his senses had been severely dulled by fatigue.

Regardless of who was looking, he did not care to be found. He lifted his eyes and hastily scanned the area for a viable escape route. If he made a break for the bars of the outlet pipe, he would surely be discovered by whomever or whatever was trailing him. His search yielded no results until finally he lifted his nose upward and spotted some small rungs affixed to the top of the pipe. Instantly, his weary mind ran some simple calculations of physics. With a well-timed, well-placed vault from the opposite wall, he could reach out, latch on to them, and pull himself up into the concealing shadows of the pipe's ceiling. The footsteps were growing much closer and louder. It would take some energy and strength, but unless his pursuer was blind and deaf, it was the only means of hiding in plain sight. Donatello tilted his head back down and then jerked it to the side to hear a satisfying crack emanate from his sore right shoulder. He flexed his troublesome hand a few times. He was not going to let anyone drag him back to the lair just to chastise him for such foolish behavior… to have to look Leonardo in those scrutinizing eyes while Raphael jabbered off some cocky, insensitive blather about running away when he himself had done the same innumerable times... to have Master Splinter gaze at him and shake his head in bitter disappointment. Against all of that, none of his ailments mattered. None of them made a lick of difference. He was about to push off from the wall when an abrupt cascade of jagged needles poured down his left arm. Donatello bit his already sore lip to hold back a groan of discomfort. _So stupid, how could I have forgotten already?_ His aching mind trembled as he strained to grip at his limp left arm again. Perhaps with his wits about him, he could recall the correct nerve to compress to counter Splinter's manipulation of his pressure points. But his mind continued to cloud with thoughts of muddled desperation, thoughts of being conspired against, and the apparent fact that he "couldn't win for losing" as Michelangelo often said.

Donatello's vision darted to the adjoining tunnel as a dim streak of orange trailed by swiftly. It continued onward down the narrow passageway with a loud "splash splash splash". The corner of Donatello's mouth curled into an idle smirk. Perhaps Michelangelo really did need to focus on his training; his tracking skill left much to be desired.

But this sad observation would work in Donatello's favor. It seemed that desperate acrobatics would no longer be necessary to escape. Cautiously, as the footfalls trailed off, Donatello pulled himself from the wall and made haste toward the distant light. He did not know where he would go beyond the edge of that pipe, but he did know that he wanted to be as far away from his brothers as possible. He drew close to the bars and reached out to them with his good hand, feeling that comfortable warmth just at his fingertips. Suddenly he was stopped dead in his tracks by an unknown force from behind, impeding his forward momentum. Strong arms had spanned around him and held him like a vise. Donatello yelped out in surprise, his heart racing so quickly that he began to feel light-headed.

"Gotcha, Donnie," came a familiar voice close to his ear.

"Let me go!" Donatello spat, the rage boiling back up through his blood as he struggled against the sturdy embrace.

"Whoa Donnie, chill, dude! It's jus' me, Mikey!" Michelangelo assured him, dodging his head to the side as Donatello's right elbow thrust backward.

"I said let me go, Michelangelo!" To his surprise, Michelangelo instantly released him and he stumbled forward several paces, crying out pitifully in shock again. He whirled around clumsily, the tails of his headband whipping him in the face and sticking to his nose, wet with sewer water. He shook his head in exasperation and let out a growl, dislodging the fabric from his face, and then rewarded Michelangelo with a cold stare and a sneer fueled by embarrassment. "Leave me alone," he continued in a warning tone.

"Dude, bro, chillax. You're all banged up," Michelangelo coaxed cautiously, lift his hands up as if to show his brother that he was unarmed and not hostile. "Master Splinter's worried about ya." Donatello let out a raspy grunt and squeezed his still lifeless arm. Michelangelo seemed to understand the innuendo, but continued anyway. "I'm worried. I mean like, dude, I'm surprised your jaw's still attached to your face, brah," he added with a hopeful laugh. Donatello found no humor in it. Michelangelo's bemused expression relapsed and he took a brave step towards his brother who regarded him like a cornered alley cat might. "C'mon bro... I'm real sorry 'bout what happened with Leo."

"What good does it do for _you_ to be the sorry one?" His brother's tone was icy and low.

"H'yeah, I know Donnie," Michelangelo began with a quick nod, "but we gotta like, patch ya up, yeah? I mean this one time, Raph slugged me so hard across the back of the head... that I got this like totally wicked welt like right here." He pointed with much care to a spot near the top of his head. "And I was like, 'bummer, but it's no big deal' and-- Donnie, where ya goin'?"

"Out." Bruised and battered though he was, Donatello was determined to ignore Michelangelo's attempt to bring him back to the lair. It simply was not an option he was willing to peacefully comply with, nor was he interested in humoring his brother's constant need to make light of every situation. He was already contorting himself sideways to squeeze through the bars of the pipe.

"Donnie. C'mon brah. Don't leave." Michelangelo's expression narrowed into an unfamiliar veil of seriousness, and his good-natured vocal tone deteriorated.

Donatello paid him no heed. He could feel the cold river water flowing beneath his right foot.

"Donatello. Please."

The violet-clad turtle paused for a moment and shifted his eyes back to his brother who still stood several paces away. Michelangelo hardly ever called him by his full name- it was always "Don" this or "Donnie" that. He even recalled being playfully referred to as "DJ Donnie-T", whatever that meant. But when Michelangelo took the time and effort to say his actual given name, he knew a strong feeling was motivating it. And the word "please" was throwing him off as well. "I'm sorry, Mikey," he finally replied with a much softer but determined demeanor. "I'm leaving."

Unexpectedly, Michelangelo lunged forward and clamped onto Donatello's right arm. "Ya gotta come back!"

All the softness dissipated from Donatello as he felt like he was suddenly under attack again. His instincts urged him to get away. He violently wrenched his shoulder inward in an effort to rip his arm out of Michelangelo's grasp, but the awkward position his body was in did not allow for much strategic movement. He was wedged between his insistent brother and the frigid waters of the river; there was only one solution.

Donatello twisted his right arm sharply towards the side of his body and yanked Michelangelo inward to him abruptly. He had briefly thrown his brother off guard and loosened the grip he had on his arm. In the next instant, he planted his hand on Michelangelo's plastron and pushed as hard as he could, knocking his brother backwards and thrusting himself the rest of the way between the bars. He hit the water with splash that reverberated through the inside of the pipe.

Michelangelo did not know what had hit him. He was shocked that Donatello, even in his weakened state, could counter so efficiently. He rebounded from the reeling stumble his brother had thrown him into and ran back to the bars, pressing himself against them and grasping two between his fingers. "Don!" he yelled out to the swelling water beyond. He could just barely make out the warped, shadowy silhouette of a 5-foot tall mutated turtle billowing below the surface. And then it began to sink deeper. "Donnie!" Michelangelo hastily squeezed his frame between the bars with some difficulty. "Shoulda laid off all that pizza last night..." he murmured after getting stuck for a moment. It was obvious that Donatello's arm was still limp from Splinter's technique by the way it hung loosely at his brother's side. There was no way he would be able to swim properly in that condition. Michelangelo balanced precariously on the tiny ledge on the other side of the bars and took another gander into the water. He could see nothing. Without further hesitation, he took a deep breath and dove in.

The cold river swallowed him into a vast, shadowy, muted world. Slowly he opened his eyes and adjusted to the conditions; it had been a while since he had taken a swim in those waters. Usually he only found himself in New York's waterways when something bad was happening, but the soft embrace and gentle hum of submersion felt welcoming for just a moment. However, he remembered why he had jumped into the river in the first place. _Donnie..._

He righted himself and kicked his legs slowly to stay suspended, then looked around frantically to see where his brother had gone within the immeasurable stretch of turquoise. Just ahead, he could make out the familiar shape. Donatello was swimming, but quite peculiarly so: tilted on his side, stroking with one arm, propelling himself mostly by way of awkward leg movements at an arduously slow pace. _Was he swimming in circles? _Michelangelo thought for a moment that he might be trying to drown himself-- he could not _possibly_ think he would make it to shore by flailing about lamely like that. The orange-banded turtle recoiled his body and raised his arms, then pulled himself sharply forward through the water toward his brother.

In another beat, he was upon Donatello who, since having rolled completely onto his back while he tried desperately to swim, spotted him and let out a little too much breath from the surprise. Michelangelo pushed more water behind him to propel himself closer, and then reached out to offer a hand to his kin. Donatello responded to the offer with a frantic kick to Michelangelo's forearm. The force nearly made the violet-clad turtle do a mid-water somersault as he continued to struggle to get away. Michelangelo withdrew and clamped his teeth together tightly as a spray of tiny bubbles engulfed his vision. He was growing rather frustrated; he was trying to help but even now, at the river bed, Donatello resisted him. No more Mr. Nice Mikey.

When the bubbles cleared from Donatello's wake, Michelangelo thrust himself forward swiftly, pumping his legs in unison like a dolphin, arms at his sides. He was not about to let his brother drown himself for such silly reasons. In a matter of moments, he had caught up and he wrapped his arms around his brother like a shark closing its jaws around its prey. Another torrent of bubbles raced upward to the surface as Donatello exhaled a bit more and sloshed about meekly in his brother's grasp. Michelangelo could feel Donatello's efforts growing weaker by the second. It was imperative that he get him to the surface.

Michelangelo swam as quickly and efficiently as he could with such a resistant payload. The beautiful, hazy glow of the sunlight diffusing through the water's surface glared in Michelangelo's eyes as he kicked toward it with abandon. Finally, he broke the surface with a huge gasp and pulled his brother up hastily.

Donatello coughed and sputtered, hacking out river water and wheezing rather violently. Michelangelo was relieved to hear him breathing, however laboriously, but that reprieve would not last long. Donatello still, despite it all, had some fight in him. He twisted his body roughly from within Michelangelo's arms, trying to get his good limb free. "Leggo'me!" he spat indignantly.

"No Donatello!" Michelangelo retorted, struggling to keep hold of his brother while vigorously exerting energy to tread water. "You've totally lost it, brah! Yer comin' home with me if I gotta drag ya there kickin' n' screamin'!"

Donatello looked as though he would bite Michelangelo's head off had he the strength to do so. Michelangelo's eyes narrowed, prepare to continue the argument, when a soft buzzing sound crept into his range of hearing. He blinked a few time, then turned his head. A mass of white and black was approaching their position from the east at a quick pace. A speed boat. _Not good_, Michelangelo thought. Boats had humans on them. Humans did not like to see gigantic, bickering turtles in their rivers. Moreover, getting run down by such a vessel would prove painful. He turned back to this brother who seemed oblivious to the impending danger and was still sputtering out angry protests.

"Don't... take me back there... _DON'T!_"

"Donnie!"

"LEMMEGO! DON'T... TAKE...ME... BACK…"

There was little time to spare. Michelangelo inhaled deeply and plunged himself and his brother back down into the world below. He could feel the vibrations of the boat's motor closing on them. Desperately, he tried to propel himself downward, but it proved difficult without the use of his arms. He was loosing grip on Donatello as well. If only he could quell his brother's blinding anger- he had never known Donatello to completely lose his wits to rage. He started to panic and slipped downward when Donatello finally wriggled his way out of Michelangelo's embrace. In one last act of desperation, the orange-clad turtle clamped onto Donatello's leg to keep him from resurfacing. In a flash, the deafening roar of the boat screamed in his ears and a forceful current ripped his body forward. Donatello's leg was wrenched from his grip as he spun within the boat's wake. The oppressive growl sped on overhead and eventually grew quieter, but Michelangelo's head was still ringing as he clawed his was back to the surface. Once there, he gasped in a mouthful of air and groaned. "Anybody catch the license plate on that boat that just hit us...?" Normally he used this type of joke as a metaphor for having received a butt-whoopin', but in this scenario it seemed less amusing to him. Also, there was no one there to chuckle politely or slap him across the back of the head. And then he remembered. "Donnie..."

Michelangelo wiped the water from his eyes and squinted against the midday sun. The low rumble of the boat still echoed in the distance, but his concern for being spotted by humans had waned considerably. When he did not see his brother treading the surface, he dove under once again and plunged himself deep enough to see beyond the glare of the sun's filtered rays. What he saw made his heart stop for a split second. The outline of his brother sank slowly toward the river bed, body unmoving, no longer struggling to escape pursuit. Michelangelo grabbed at the water in front of him and dragged himself forward furiously. _How could this day possibly get any worse?_ He hoped upon hope that he would not find the answer to that._ All of this_, he thought suddenly as Donatello was finally in his arms again,_ is my fault. If only I hadn't stayed up late… if only I hadn't screwed up and made Leo angry…If only I hadn't butted in on Donnie's business..._ Without hesitating another moment, he carried his brother to the surface as quickly as his tired legs would allow.

Donatello looked _awful_. Michelangelo rolled his body plastron-up in the water and gently wrapped his arm around his brother's neck so he could pull them both along the surface. Donatello's eyes were closed, the bruise on his face was swelling up now, and he showed no signs of consciousness. Michelangelo felt ill; it was always Donatello who knew what to do in these situations. Cool, calm, collected, intelligent-- that was his brother Donatello. But that Donatello had been lost somewhere dark and desperate today, and now Michelangelo held his brother's life in his shaky hands in the middle of the river.


	6. Chapter 6

**No Longer Responsible**

_TMNT Fan Fic by teh Vilsy_

**A/N: **Peter Laird, Kevin Eastman, Mirage Studios… talk to them if you wanna know who's **responsible** for these lovable green fellows. Not me of course.

Gees, many apologies for the wait on this chapter, although this chapter is like 3 times longer than the previous ones. Kinda fluffy, but I hope you enjoy it anyway. Just a note... I've taken liberties again character-wise, and instead of using the 2007 personality of a certain character, as I'm sure you'll see, I've opted to use something more akin to the old movies/2k3 cartoon. Ah but don't mind me, enjoy this chapter! Oh by the way... there's a lot of innuendo (you know, the naughty kind?) in this chapter. Beware if that sort of thing bothers you!

* * *

_Leonardo was standing in the distance, silhouetted against the pallid, yellow moon. He stood tall and purposefully as he always did; his posture was confident and almost regal, yet his face housed a grim countenance. Donatello remained aloof, and although he was too far to clearly see his brother's expression, the looming lunar orb seemed to project Leonardo's morose visage. It was not Donatello's desire to be in the path of the long, disconsolate shadow that Leonardo cast before him, nearly connecting the siblings with a inky chain of darkness. It was bleak and foreboding, and cold as the iciest winter's night. And yet, something inside of Donatello still yearned to approach his brother. He took a cautious step forward, but to his chagrin, Leonardo's body glided backward ever so slightly, like a dandelion seed in the breeze. He was so far away, unapproachable, unassailable. But it was Donatello's duty to try, was it not? It was his responsibility._

_His other foot resolutely swept another step closer. Leonardo's almost spectral figure in turn floated backward once more. There was a ledge just behind him. The edge of a hopelessly tall building. Donatello persevered. He meant no harm. He wanted to rejoin his brother. Yet another step, but Leonardo was again repelled like an opposing magnetic force. Donatello hesitated. Was this a test? Were he and Leonardo meant to push each other away? That could not be the truth. It simply could not be. Desperately, he took one final stride. Leonardo's graceful stance was broken like a glass hitting concrete, and he staggered backward, stumbling helplessly over the edge of the building. Donatello cried out but no sound left his throat as he watched Leonardo plummet. The world seemed to be caving in on itself. Everything was falling apart. Everything._

Donatello awoke violently and sucked in a mouthful of humid air. His heart raced wildly and his eyes darted about frantically. The air was stifling and all he could see was an indistinct, glowing mass of khaki-colored canvas above him and the dull gray texture of a stone-like substance below him. As he respired heavily, in and out, he finally came to realize that he was in a horizontal position. He wanted to pull himself up, but his body defiantly resisted movement. He felt dead. _Could he be dead? Was this a morgue? Of course not. No one would bring a dead, freakishly mutated turtle to a morgue. A dissection lab, sure. Why else would he be covered in a tarp and lying on some matter of cold slab, unable to move or feel his body? But if that was the case, why could he see or breathe?_

Slowly, sensations began to return to him. He could feel his arms-- both of them, and then his legs right down to his toes. He began to feel a small pressure run along the back of his shell. No, not dead. It must have been a mild case of sleep paralysis. That did not explain where he was, however. Suddenly the pressure on his back shifted, and he could feel an entire presence of mass pushing snugly against his right side. His head was facing the opposite direction from this sensation of movement, but he had not the strength in his neck to turn his head to look. A soft exhale of breath brushed against his right shoulder. His muscles tensed nervously in response. Wherever he was, he was not alone. If luck would conspire in his favor, as soon as he regained control of his body, he would either confront this entity or try to make an escape. However, as his mind quickly tried to calculate outcomes of his befuddling situation, he felt a sweeping relief when, interspersed with the sigh, he heard a familiar voice.

"Five more minutes, sensei..."

Donatello's lips parted and he tried to make use of his own voice. His throat felt scratchy and closed, like it had not been utilized for a long time, but he finally managed to form words. "Mike… ey...?" His jaw was stiff and it hurt to speak. The weight across the back of his shell shifted again and pressed against him with more zeal. Michelangelo rested beside his brother with his arm draped over him, curled up and asleep. Donatello felt his brother stir against his body again. "Mike… ey... that you...?"

"Hold on... I'm... about to beat... the high score..." Michelangelo muttered in subconscious response. "Gotta clear... two more... lines..." Donatello exerted some energy to nudge his right shoulder against Michelangelo's cheek and in doing so provoked his brother into consciousness. Michelangelo lifted his head up to reveal a small puddle of saliva unceremoniously left behind on Donatello's skin.

Donatello found the will to shift his upper body slightly and to turn to Michelangelo at his right side. "Mikey... did you... drool on me...?"

Michelangelo's blue eyes blinked several times, and then a look of relief and happiness fell over his visage. "Donnie," he began in a hushed voice as he patted his brother's shell affectionately with his hand. "Huh, yeah I guess I did... sorry." He wiped at Donatello's shoulder with his fingertips, abashed.

Donatello cracked a small smile, but then seemed to come under intense apprehension again. "Mikey, where are we...? Did something happen to us...?" he asked with a disquietingly oblivious tone to his strengthening voice.

Michelangelo frowned deeply and wondered for a moment if Donatello had developed amnesia from the ordeal. "We're at April's," he offered simply.

This statement disoriented Donatello even further. Why would they be cramped together in something reminiscent of a body bag on a hard, abrasive concrete surface if they were "at April's"? Michelangelo obliged Donatello's curiosity and he sat up; the canvas covering their bodies moved up along with him. He lifted his hands and pulled the heavy material away from their heads, revealing an open, sun-soaked rooftop. Warm sunlight poured over them and Donatello squinted at the surroundings in surprise. He pulled both of his hands to either side of his head and pushed upward, groaning in discomfort, but glad he had strength enough to move himself into a sitting position so he could better see what was going on. Suddenly, Michelangelo's arms whipped around his frame and squeezed him tightly.

"Bro... I'm so glad you're OK," he said with a whimper of uncertainty as he held his brother in a heartfelt embrace. "I didn't know what else to do... so I just... I-"

"It's all right, Mikey. I'm fine," Donatello assured him in a gentle voice. Gradually, the memories of what occurred in the river restored themselves. The unending anger and contempt he had felt as they struggled... how he wanted nothing more but to force Michelangelo far away from him. As Donatello felt his brother's arms around him again, hugging him affectionately despite all the hostility he had shown, he felt disgusted that he had ever acted that way. He moved his arms up quickly and returned Michelangelo's hug gratefully. With some relief, he realized that his left arm was completely responsive again. "Mikey," he continued, still resting his chin, which tingled slightly with pain, against his brother's shoulder. "How long have we been out here?"

Michelangelo pulled back and squinted at the sky, scratching his head while he tried to gauge the time that had passed. The sun was still in the afternoon sky, but it was starting to slip lazily behind the taller buildings of the cityscape beyond. "I dunno, bro... I guess a few hours." He gazed back timidly at his brother. "Ya like, got knocked cold in the river and I didn't know what to do, brah. I pulled ya out under one of the docks and you were breathin' so that was like, totally sweet." He rubbed the side of his neck and exhaled deeply as if reliving the moment in his mind. Donatello nodded in encouragement. He knew Michelangelo was not always the most calm or prudent under pressure. He could not imagine what it must have been like for him. A terrible pang of guilt grasped at Donatello heart again as Michelangelo continued. "I thought April and Casey could help me patch ya up but when I finally got ya here they weren't home." Michelangelo looked a bit perturbed suddenly and drummed his fingers against his knee. "And I guess they've started lockin' their window. So I carried ya up here and found this tarp thing and covered us with it... 'cuz it was still daylight an' all..." He pointed a finger to the sky idly. "Didn't want anyone to see us while you were sleepin'. I guess I fell asleep too..."

Donatello listened to each word, spellbound. "You carried me all the way through the city?"

"Yeah."

"And nobody saw us?"

"Don't think so, brah. Didn't hear any gunshots or nothin'. Guess it's not turtle season."

"You didn't bring me back to the sewer?"

Michelangelo seemed put off by this inquiry, as if it was a cruel trick question. He rubbed the back of his head and grimaced. "You kept telling me not to. Not to bring you back there. So I didn't."

Donatello's heart felt weak and he in turn hung his head. "Mikey... I'm so sorry." His words were hushed and laced with remorse.

Michelangelo reached over and amiably patted Donatello's arm and offered an encouraging and beguiling smile. "Dun sweat it, brah. I'm just stoked you're doing better now." He bit his lip and cleared his throat, starting to rub at his neck again with his fingers. "There is uh, some bad news though."

Donatello's solemn eyes lifted to his brother, unsure that there could possibly be worse news than all that had happened that day. "What's that?"

"Er... lost your bandanna in the river, I guess. Sorry, dude."

Donatello reached his left hand up and touched the skin between his eyes. True enough, the purple fabric that usually adorned his face was absent. He let out a small chuckle and shrugged, closing his eyes. "If that's the worst of it," he said softly. But despite how inconsequential it may have been, a part of him felt vacant.

"Lay low a sec, brah," Michelangelo instructed, shifting his eyes about and hoisting himself onto his toes in a cat-like crouch. "I'mma see if Casey or April are home yet."

Donatello gave him a short nod of concurrence and watched as Michelangelo prowled across the roof and flipped over the ledge dexterously onto the fire escape. The sight of his brother jumping, however intentionally, over the side of the building gave Donatello a sudden scare. "Mikey!" he called out, arm extending outward as if to reach out and grab his brother. But then he recoiled and placed his hand over his mouth shamefully. It had reminded him vividly of the dream that had jarred him awake, and the scene with Leonardo replayed imposingly through his mind. He rolled his head back and forth, trying to shake the images away. When he could no longer take it, he got up from his sitting position and limped his way toward the fire escape. His body, especially his face, was sore but not in any crippling pain. The long hours of sleep must have been what he needed most to heal from the morning's stress. He knew Michelangelo was probably fine, but he simply could not bear not to confirm with his own eyes-- to not have the certainty that the dream had denied him. Several stories down, he made out the bright orange tails of Michelangelo's bandanna gently billowing behind him in the breeze. He was expertly hanging upside down from the ledge above April's window (behavior he liked to emulate from one of New York's resident vigilantes and with lots of dangerous practice), face pressed to the glass, dead still. Donatello waited for some sort of signal that it was safe, or perhaps for Michelangelo to retreat back up the stairs if he found the apartment to still be empty. A minute or so passed and Michelangelo had not stirred an inch. Donatello quirked an eye ridge, now curious and concerned. He tilted his head up and made a quick visual scan of the surrounding buildings, lest some human spot him and notice that he did not have an obvious zipper running down his chest. Satisfied that no one was looking, he pulled himself onto the fire escape and trotted down toward his brother.

"Mikey, what's the matter?" he questioned, looking up at his suspended sibling.

"SHHHH! Ho m'gawd, Donnie, look!"

"Huh...?" Donatello looked down to peer into the window. By the way Michelangelo was reacting, the apartment must have been on fire or was being robbed. The glare from the sun made it difficult to see, so Donatello lifted his hand to his forehead to act as a visor. "Y-yikes!" he suddenly stuttered, moving back a bit in surprise.

"Awe... some..." Michelangelo drawled with a huge grin, pressing his face so close to the window that his breath began to fog the glass. "Dude, they are like totally eatin' each other's face."

"M-Mikey!" Donatello interjected, though in a hushed voice, and reflexively reached up and slapped Michelangelo across the shoulder. Flustered, he felt blood rushing to his cheeks and he turned away from the view of April O'Neal and Casey Jones sharing a heated, romantic moment on one of their living room sofas.

Michelangelo precariously moved his hand from its grip on the brick ledge and dusted at his shoulder idly, as if a fly had landed on him. He then continued gawking in glee. "Whoa dude, this is like, sooo cool. Naw scratch that-- this is soooo hot."

Donatello cringed, aghast at how hormonally charged and immature his brother had suddenly become, and likewise negligent of their friends' deserved privacy. "Mikey, come down from there. Quit staring at them like some sort of a-" He was fishing for the right word but only "teenager" came to mind. Donatello gently rested a hand on his forehead in defeat. He could fault Michelangelo for a lot of things, but being teenaged was not one of them.

"H'aw man... Casey is so lucky..."

Donatello was about to chastise Michelangelo further and to demand that they leave, when a sly look spontaneously came over his face. "Lucky, huh?" He reached up and poked Michelangelo sharply a few times on the head.

Michelangelo seemed to snap out of his ogling trance and shifted his eyes down warily to Donatello. "Well... yeah... what I meant is..."

"You still have a crush on April, don't you?"

"NO!" Michelangelo bellowed defensively, nearly before Donatello could even finish the accusation. Nearby, a pigeon lighted from its perch, startled.

Before Donatello could regret having ruffled both the pigeon's and his brother's feathers, so to speak, Michelangelo had lost his precise grapple on the ledge and slipped off, crashing down onto the hard metal platform below. Donatello tried to catch him but it was too late. A loud scream followed by a startled yell permeated through the window pane. Donatello reached down quickly and helped a groaning Michelangelo to his feet, and then turned back to the window in dread, seeing April and Casey's shocked and subsequently furious faces. The two brothers looked at each other nervously, then turned back to offer innocent smiles as Casey jumped up from the sofa and stormed over.

The window jerked open and the tall, dark-haired human poked his head out with a menacing scowl. "Yes, may I help you?" he grumbled in a threateningly gruff voice, laden with his New York accent.

"Ah... h-hi Casey," Donatello replied in a jittery whimper.

"We were just passin' through! Don't mind us!" Michelangelo lied, the huge grin lingering on his face.

"Zat so? Well, did'ja like what'cha saw?"

Donatello hastily shook his head. Michelangelo hastily nodded his, but then thought the situation over and shook his head vigorously instead.

"Cuz seriously, guys…" He pushed back the sleeve of his button-down shirt to reveal tense biceps and a clenched fist, slowly but purposefully waving it up and down. "I'm gonna hafta start chargin'."

"Jones!" April's commanding voice came and she herself followed, eyes barely looming out from behind his broad shoulder. "Let me handle this."

Casey, well trained as he was, yielded to April's demands and shuffled aside, eyes still locked on the two turtles that huddled nervously at the window.

April's slender hands rested firmly at her hips as she assessed the situation, tilting her head to the side to let her fiery, slightly disheveled hair fall away from her face. She was donning business attire: navy slacks and a blouse with several buttons undone, suggesting she had recently returned home from work and was in the process of "getting comfortable" with Casey's help. It was no wonder she was peeved at her unexpected guests to whom she gave a stern yet bemused look. Michelangelo gave her the most childlike, innocent gaze that he could muster without appearing completely frightened. Cute, but April knew better. And... was that Donatello? She had to squint against the setting sun to get a good look at his face and build-- while both were unique from his brothers', she could not make out the familiar outline of the bo staff on his back, nor did he appear to be wearing the characteristic purple band across his face. She leaned forward, and by the meek, somewhat neurotic expression that crept onto his face as she gazed intently at him, she realized it could be none other than Donatello. It was unlike him or Michelangelo to randomly show up at her window, particularly since Leonardo had returned, and certainly not unannounced during daylight hours. Raphael hardly even showed his face anymore after dark, which she did not entirely mind since it kept Casey at home with her during the night. "All right boys, I thought we had a talk about coming over without-- Donatello, what happened to you?" April's harsh tone immediately softened when she spotted the glaring bruise engulfing part of Donatello's face.

Michelangelo exhaled deeply, relieved that they had apparently dodged some embarrassment, but then he recalled why he had come to April's in the first place. Donatello seemed perplexed, as if he had forgotten about the dull pain that tingled across his jaw, and the general disarray his body appeared to be in. Michelangelo spoke for him. "Oh, right, sorry to crash the party, guys, but Donnie was kinda hurt so I thought I could--"

"Come on, come in," April urged, reaching her hands out to usher Donatello in over the window ledge.

Casey's rueful expression also lightened when he saw the condition Donatello was in. "Man, you guys been backstreet brawlin' with some gang punks or what? And ya didn't invite me?" The dark-haired man looked genuinely disappointed, and he glanced back out the window past Michelangelo expecting to see Raphael there as well.

"Naw, Case," Michelangelo rebuked, hopping onto the window frame and squatting down like a bird on a perch. "We were having some... uh…" He scratched at his cheek with a finger. "… domestic problems."

"Come down from there please, Mikey," April pleaded as she coaxed Donatello into a sitting position on the sofa cushions. "Do you want the whole world to see you?" she added, flippantly.

Michelangelo rubbed his chin thoughtfully, then gave an exuberant nod. "Actually, I kinda do!"

"C'mon wise-guy," Casey smirked with half a chuckle. He reached behind Michelangelo and gave him an abrupt shove that sent him toppling head over shell onto the floor, on which he made a graceful somersault onto his feet. Casey closed the window behind him, and then turned abruptly. "Whaddya mean, 'domestic'?" he pried, crossing his arms over his chest.

April was inspecting Donatello's face quite meticulously, leaning against his plastron with an aghast expression as she observed his bruise. Donatello's heart trembled in uneven palpitations under her gaze; the image of her and Casey passionately going at each other in the same position just minutes before hand was still emblazoned in his mind. "A-April, I'm fine, r-really."

"Fine? What in the world happened? Were you attacked out there? Where are your brothers? Is everything all right?" April was spouting out questions a mile a minute, not leaving any room for explanation as she carefully dabbed her fingers against Donatello's swollen lip. She frowned when she saw him flinch at her touch, and her eyes caught the bit of tattered gauze already wrapped around the shaking fingers of his right hand. This was not her idea of "fine". "Who did this to you?"

Michelangelo leaped over the back of the adjoining sofa and sat precariously on the top of the backrest, watching April dote on his brother. "Like I said," he began softly. "Domestic problems."

"Yeah an' like I said," Casey blurted out, moving over to the sofa to prod at Michelangelo's arm with his fist. "What th' heck d'ya mean by that?"

Michelangelo frowned and rubbed his bicep, not in the spirits for Casey's rough housing. He looked to Donatello whose very brief playful mood outside had already receded to a dejected silence. He wished Donatello would say something, or to at least make eye contact, to let him know if he should tell April and Casey the truth about what was going on. Donatello was unresponsive as was being manipulated around by April, checking his arms, neck-- the same as he had done for Michelangelo when he wrecked his skateboard. Suddenly Michelangelo had a strong feeling in his chest. He would not cover for Donatello this time. It had only brought trouble for both of them thus far. Lying to Casey and April would serve no purpose. He swung one of his legs against the backrest of the sofa as he gathered his thoughts.

"Eh, I'll go get the first aid," Casey announced, realizing he was getting absolutely no where with Michelangelo.

"Yes, thank you, Casey," April agreed, looking briefly to her partner as he strode into the next room, and then she went back to examining Donatello's right hand.

"April," Michelangelo began slowly while Donatello seemed enthralled by her attention.

"Mmm?" she breathed half-heartedly, determined to assess Donatello's injuries. She suddenly looked panicked and turned her eyes to the orange-banded turtle. "Oh! I'm sorry, Mikey, are you hurt too?"

"Oh, naw naw, I'm cool, dudette," he assured her with a shake of his head. "But uh... Donnie..." He paused and took a breath, determined to clear the air. "Donnie and Leo sort of had a fight. Like a totally big one."

Donatello grimaced, feeling even more embarrassed but not assertive enough to either confirm or deny his brother's words. April's eyes shifted back to him questioningly, as if not quite understanding or believing that there was a correlation between Donatello's condition and a supposed dispute with his brother. "A fight…?" she repeated in an incredulous voice. She could imagine something of that nature between Raphael and Leonardo, but Donatello? "What happened?"

Donatello gave April an intent, silent gaze, and then finally gained the confidence to open his mouth when Casey marched back into the room with a plastic case in tow. "'Ere we go, Donnie. We can wrap ya up like a mummy wit all the bandages in dis ting." He paraded over to April and knelt down, presenting the first aid kit to her.

"Thanks, hun," April said quickly but earnestly, taking the container and placing it on the sofa cushions beside Donatello.

Casey lifted up a heavy-looking pouch constructed meticulously from a dish towel. "'Ere's some ice too. Yer lip's turnin' as purple as ya mask... er... was."

April shot Casey a warning look suggesting he should continue being helpful instead of making cracks at their patient. She took the ice-filled cloth and pressed it carefully to Donatello's bruise. To her surprise he did not flinch this time, but still gazed upon her with a defeated demeanor. "Just hold that there for me, Donnie," she instructed while opening the first aid container and rummaging through its contents. She extracted a small pair of bandage scissors and adeptly sheered through the damp, already worn gauze on Donatello's right hand. Having done so, she held his hand in hers and took a look at its condition. She grimaced at was she saw and shifted her eyes up questioningly to her injured friend. Donatello regarded her with more closed silence from behind the bundle of ice.

"Yeah, he beat the crud outta the wall last night," Michelangelo suddenly explained, smacking his fist against an open palm for effect. "It was like, WHAM, the fastest right jab I've ever seen, dude."

"Mikey," Donatello finally muttered from the side of his mouth, rolling his eyes at the comment.

"OK, please guys," April said, a sternness reentering her voice. "What's going on?"

"Yeah, spill it already!" Casey chimed, taking the scissors from April as she handed them to him and waving them around threateningly.

"Leonardo and I had a disagreement," Donatello snapped more loudly than he himself had anticipated.

"A fight," Michelangelo corrected, lifting an obstinate finger. "Like I already told ya."

"Over what?" April demanded, resting Donatello's hand onto his knee and pulling a small tube from the plastic box. "What could you possibly be fighting about that he could do this to you?"

Casey smirked and rubbed at his chin. "Yeah man, I wouldn't even expect Raph to go that hard on ya. I mean, yer so cool 'n laid back all the time. What ya do t'yer ol' fearless leader?" Casey fell into deep thought, or at least as deep as he could manage. "Y'guys fightin' over a girl or somethin'?" Casey did not take time to reflect on the absurdity of this possibility. "Only thing worth sluggin' ya brother for, 'sides owin' money of course. Ya owe 'im some scratch or somethin'?"

"Casey," April grumbled through her teeth as she rubbed some manner of cream onto Donatello's knuckles.

"No, it's nothing like that," Donatello surrendered with a sigh. "It's complicated... I--"

"No it's not," Michelangelo interrupted, raising a finger again. "Leo's been on our shells nonstop since, ya know... the whole monster thing? An' Donnie's like, had enough, so he calls Leo out on it, and like... I dunno what happened, but Leo just snapped and clocked 'im one real hard in the mouth. And then it was like, Wrestlemania! And then Master Splinter's all like, "STOP!" only he said it in Japanese like he does when he's real mad, an' Donnie was like, goin' nuts, an' then he did this crazy thing to their arms, and then I chased him into the river, and now we're here." Michelangelo nodded a few times, confident that he had laid out the story quite plainly. Everyone stared and blinked at him. Finally, Casey spoke.

"The hell you just say?"

"Look, I was angry with Leonardo," Donatello said resolutely, lowering the ice and watching as April unwound a length of fresh gauze and snatched the scissors back from the dumbfounded Casey. "I don't agree with some of his... methods... and as of late, his general attitude. So yes, as Michelangelo so eloquently put it, I called him out on it, and, also as he said, Leo 'clocked' me, and I suppose I did lose myself for a spell."

"Dude, you went totally ape #," Michelangelo confirmed, making gestures with his hands to denote veritable insanity, and taking advantage of Splinter's absence to use a colorful word. "I was like, kinda..." He wanted to say "scared" but did not want to seem like "a sissy" to the present company.

"Yeah, thanks Mikey," Donatello interjected shortly, trying to keep a growing anger in check. He had no right to be getting flustered; he had indeed acted far from his normal self. But under the circumstances, it felt warranted. And Michelangelo was merely telling the truth. What was pricking at his patience now was the fact that his mind dug up the memory of the moment-- he and Leonardo face-to-face... the vacant look in his brother's eyes, and then that hateful resentment... and then the viper-like strike.

"Oh Donnie," April crooned, holding his hand again to re-wrap his fingers. "I didn't know... I thought you boys were doing OK."

"Yeah, youse guys never been happier!" Casey added with a tone of disbelief. "Least I figured." He leaned his elbow on the couch cushions and tumbled back into his deep thought. "Man, always thought you an' Leo had ya heads screwed on tighter'n that." April elbowed Casey in the ribs abruptly. "Ow! What, I'm just sayin'!"

"Casey..."

"Now Raph on the other hand-- Hey!" He looked to Donatello and then to Michelangelo with a sudden renewed joy in his eyes. "Hey youse guys wanna go bust some heads, blow off some steam? Me n' Raph, when he used'ta come ovah, been noticin' dis one spot on da corner-- dese punks loiterin' right afta dark, lookin' kinda suspicious like they casin' dis liquor store--"

"Casey, have you lost your last good brain cell?" April whined in jaded defeat, tightening Donatello's bandage. "First of all, Donatello is in no shape to go out gallivanting and 'busting heads'. Second of all, I don't want you getting yourself into unnecessary danger... any of you," she added with a sincere twist of concern in her softening voice.

"I know, babe, but--"

Suddenly a loud rumble echoed throughout the room. Everyone turned to Michelangelo in alarm. The orange-clad turtle grimaced, then offered a charming but half-hearted grin. "Uh, sorry dudes and dudette. Guess I'm a little hungry."

April was about to open her mouth to comment, when an equally thunderous growl emerged from behind Donatello's plastron, making her heart jump. Her and Casey's eyes veered up to him, and he smiled similarly to Michelangelo. "Sorry," he mouthed sheepishly. "Mikey and I didn't have much for breakfast."

"Hey, I didn't have any breakfast at all," the orange-clad turtle protested, folding his arms obstinately. "Bein' dead and all."

"What?"

"It's nothing," Donatello said quickly, not wanting talks of Leonardo's tyranny to escalate.

"Yeah dead. I'm a dud today. Dead as a doornail. Finito. Expired. Estoy muerto, senorita. Or least I was till all this crazy stuff between Donnie and Leo went down."

"Zat s'posed t'mean?" Casey prodded again, turning to Michelangelo in further confusion.

"Huh? Ohhhh," Michelangelo continued, nodding as if he had just remembered that April and Casey did not live with them in the sewer. "Well if I screw up one of Leo's ninja tests, he like, 'kills' me and so I'm dead for like the whole day. It's a total bummer." April's brow quirked and Casey seemed flabbergasted by the explanation. "Yeah so he like, completely owned me this morning, which might I add was totally bogus! And so I can't talk and have to starve myself all day... oh, yeah, I'm sorry, it's called 'fasting' in Leo's World..."

"Mikey, I think they get the idea," Donatello murmured, seeing April become more and more unsettled. He sighed and pressed the ice back to his numb lip, starting to regret that Michelangelo brought him here to pester their friends with matters that should not concern them.

"Looks like Leo's gettin' under both ya skin," Casey remarked, scratching the back of his head. "What's Raph's take on all this?" Of all his turtle friends, Casey Jones knew and related to Raphael the best. He knew Raphael's track record for being at odds with Leonardo. He could not imagine Raphael sitting well with the way their leader seemed to be treating them.

"Pfft, Raph?" Michelangelo began, as if his hot-tempered brother was the least of their problems. "I dunno, he's different, I guess. I mean, he's still Raph... moody and he likes to bust my shell all the time. But like, he doesn't care when Leo bosses him around anymore. It's weird, I think he likes it or something."

Casey made a face like Michelangelo was talking about the wrong guy. "Man, things sure sound messed up," he concluded plainly, continuing to rub his slick hair.

"And Splinter?" April inquired vaguely, looking back and forth between Donatello and Michelangelo. Surely the wise old rat, if aware of the situation between his sons, would intervene.

The two turtles grew silent; they did not really have an answer for her. "I don't know..." Donatello finally admitted. "I'm sure he's upset. I ran out before-"

Again, a strained growl of protest interrupted the conversation. "Sorry, that was me again," Michelangelo grinned with a bit of idle amusement.

April turned to Casey and reached out her hand to touch his arm gently. "Hun, why don't you order us a few pizzas?" Michelangelo nearly fell off of the back of the sofa at the mention of his favorite food. "You boys should stay for dinner and rest up awhile. If you want to, of course."

"Heck yeah, can we Donnie, please please please please?" Michelangelo bounced up and down where he sat, his childlike enthusiasm pouring out, unhindered.

Donatello could not help but smile at his brother. Donatello had no real authority over Michelangelo, and yet he still asked permission. A tiny ping of sadness pricked him and he nodded graciously at the woman below him. "It's fine, Mikey, but I don't want to be an inconvenience to April and Casey."

April stood up and regarded Donatello and Michelangelo with warm affection. "You boys are never an inconvenience." Michelangelo let out a sudden and seemingly inappropriate laugh then stifled himself when he realized no one else thought April's statement was humorous. April smirked as the memory of a rubber snake coiled up on the shelf of her refrigerator came to mind, along with a plethora of other colorful memories regarding her reptilian friends bunking at her apartment when times were tough for them. She let out a knowing chuckle and nodded at Michelangelo. "All right, you're not ALWAYS an inconvenience."

"Speak fer yaself, babe," Casey huffed, knowing how much pizza Michelangelo alone could put away. He stood up as well and placed a quick kiss on April's cheek, who smiled appreciatively at the gesture. "All right, kids," he continued, stretching his arms out and addressing Donatello and Michelangelo. "What's yer poison?"

"Pepperoni, sausage, peppers, onions, pineapple, and extra cheese, hold the mushrooms, and seriously, dude, no anchovies."

Casey's eye twitched as he listened to what could only be a long-practiced list of demands from the overzealous Michelangelo. "Right... and you?" He glanced over to Donatello, hoping for a slightly less grandiose request.

"I'll have what he's having."

"Wondaful. Ya wish is my command," Casey announced with a sarcastic bow and a flourish before turning to make his way into the kitchen.

"C'mon C.J., hup two hup two! There's starvin' turtles what need feedin'!" Michelangelo guffawed after the grumbling Casey Jones. "Wouldn't wanna turn ya in for animal cruelty!" With more amused laughter, he bounced up and down on the sofa's backrest until he fell over, gracefully, onto the floor. "Ow..."

April shook her head and fought back a laugh of her own. Despite her best efforts to guide Casey onto the path of maturity, he remained a 9-year-old trapped in a man's body, especially when the boys were around. Seeing them interact always made her feel warm and nostalgic. But, as she turned back to look at Donatello, she could not help but think that those days were not meant to last forever.

* * *

The pizzas were delivered, brought up to the apartment, and subsequently devoured. Michelangelo consumed at least twice as many slices as the others combined, and he lounged luxuriously on one of the sofas with a toothpick poking out of his mouth. "Ah yeah, fat n' sassy," he gargled, patting the lower part of his plastron. "Feels good."

The rest of the evening was spent in quiet relaxation. The good company, good food, and good movie-watching helped the already easy-to-distract Michelangelo all but forget the day's trying events. Donatello sat comfortably on the adjoining sofa, book ended by a disgruntled Casey and April who regarded him with motherly attention. "Does you jaw hurt? Do you want to lie down? Do you need more ice?" Donatello responded to her offers with polite declination and shot Casey nervous glances. He assumed that to Casey, having a 5 foot tall turtle between himself and his lady love was rather unappealing at the moment.

Several hours rolled by, and though Michelangelo was enthralled by the lame movie he had duped the present company into watching on the science fiction channel, April and Casey seemed to become more and more distracted. With a coy gaze over Donatello to her partner, April gave some sort of signal. Casey immediately looked ten times happier and then stood up slowly. "Ahhhh, welp," he announced loudly with a fake yawn and a stretch. "That 'bout does it fer me. Gotta wake up early an' ... uh... y'know. Wake up."

"Huh, oh yeah, look at the time," April chimed in, lifting her watch-less hand up for effect. "Need some rest for work tomorrow."

"Yeah so, g'night guys. I'll uh... pre-heat the oven for ya, if ya know what I'm sayin'" Casey added oh-so discreetly to April as he marched his way into the hallway.

A devilish grin drew up on Michelangelo's young face and he rolled onto his side to call out after Casey. "Don't be too loud, guys! I'mma light sleeper!"

"No you aren't," Donatello refuted, not quite grasping the innuendo of it all.

April turned slightly red and stood up hastily. "I'll be right back," she announced with a slight crack in her voice as she padded down the hall after Casey.

"Ooh, a quicky?"

"..." Donatello seemed to finally catch on. "Give it a rest already, Mikey. Sheesh, you really do stay up too late watching TV."

Moments later, April returned with an armful of fluffy bedding. She nonchalantly tossed a blanket and a pillow at Michelangelo, hitting him square in the head as he was distracted by the television.

"Ow! Hey! What kinda room service is this?" Michelangelo sputtered from underneath the pillow laying over his face. He flailed about for a moment, pushing the blanket and pillow off of him. "Don't expect a tip!"

April rolled her eyes and then placed a second set of bedding next to Donatello. "Good night, guys," she said soothingly. "You know you can stay here as long as you need to." She motioned absently to the kitchen. "There's cereal in the top left cupboard, milk's in the fridge, of course." She smiled as if she found her own words to be foolish.

Donatello smiled back and nodded gratefully. "Thanks April. We really appreciate all that you do for us."

April then leaned down to carefully give Donatello a hug. For some reason this caught him off guard, but he opened his arms to her and returned the embrace. He could not remember how long it had been since April had hugged him.

"Whaddabout me...?" came the timid and questioning interruption.

April drew back up and turned to Michelangelo who looked nearly crushed with child-like jealousy. "I didn't forget you, Mikey," she said with a knowing grin as she strode over to him. He snapped up into a sitting position quickly as though he had not expected her to actually come over to him. "I don't think you'd ever let anyone forget about you," she added as the orange-clad turtle appeared increasingly shy and nervous at her closeness. She slipped her arms around his shell and gave him a gentle squeeze. "Good night, loud-mouth. Now, don't you dare come snooping around my bedroom tonight, either."

If Michelangelo could transform from verdant to crimson, he would have in an instant. He was far too shaken up from April's friendly, yet omniscient warning to actually in turn put his arms around her. She pulled away and gave him a sly smile and picked up the pillow she had given him, and playfully stuffed it back against his face before leaving to retire for the evening.

Michelangelo let the pillow drop idly into his lap, a spellbound stupor consuming his visage. "Dude, Donnie..." he finally said after a few minutes. Donatello had already arranged the blanket and pillow into an appropriate configuration for sleeping and was laying down.

"Hmm...?"

Michelangelo clutched the pillow and fiddled with the corners of the pillowcase. "I think April's totally in love with me."

Donatello let out a "HA!" a bit louder than he had intended to, then rolled over to lay on his side. "Yeah Mikey, I'll just let Casey know."

"Dude, no way, he'll pulverize me!"

"Yeah, that's my hope," Donatello drawled, shifting to get more comfortable.

"Yeah thanks, good looks, bro'," Michelangelo scowled, flopping about to get the blanket around him properly. He waited for a while for Donatello to respond, but his brother merely closed his eyes and was still. "Bummer," Michelangelo murmured to himself, reaching for the remote and clicking off the TV. He cuddled himself up snugly under the blanket and pulled the pillow under his head then resigned himself to stare at the ceiling. "Donnie...?"

"Mmm...?"

"I was thinking, maybe we should go back home now. I mean, it's cool havin' this sleep over 'n stuff, but it's like... I just remembered... ya know... Master Splinter must be really, really worried now."

"I know, Mikey," Donatello replied simply. He gave no further signs of agreement.

Michelangelo waited a bit longer in hopes of hearing some words of wisdom from his brother. Instead, he heard heavy breathing and eventually quiet snores. "In the morning then, I guess," Michelangelo whispered to himself reassuringly, and then turned onto his stomach and hugged his pillow, wishing that he had Mr. P with him.

Some hours past, and Donatello was very much awake. In fact, he had been for most of the night. The snoring had been just a front to discourage Michelangelo's conversation, and in truth, Donatello was waiting for his brother to fall asleep. In the meantime, for a couple hours, he lay there, pondering intensely on many things, clutching his pillow tightly as he came to an unpleasant decision. He listened to the familiar rhythmic breathing and mumbling denoting a deeply slumbering Michelangelo, he slowly and dexterously slipped out of his makeshift bed and silently padded his way to the window. He turned to gaze at his brother for a moment, a solemn expression shading his darkened face. A sliver of pale moonlight worked its way through the window and rested peacefully on the side of Michelangelo's face. Donatello turned again and slowly, inaudibly clicked up the lock to the window and pushed it open with the greatest of care. With a bit of effort he pulled himself up to the window frame.

"Bro," Michelangelo's soft voice suddenly came from behind. Donatello turned his head slightly to peer over his shoulder. The orange-banded turtle stood not far away- a mere silhouette of a figure amidst the darkened shapes of the apartment. "I may not be the best ninja, but I'm not deaf either."

"I never figured you were, Mikey," Donatello admitted, his bandaged mouth barely visible from behind his shoulder. "I thought maybe you would let me go this time."

"Not a chance, brah, 'less you're goin' home."

"I'm not."

"Yeah," Michelangelo huffed, shifting his weight to favor his right leg. His hands drew up to rest against his waist and he shook his head in frustration. "I didn't think so." He moved forward to the window cautiously, as if Donatello would flee if he got too close. "C'mon Donnie, I'd like, chase ya down t'the ends of the earth, but it's like 2 in the mornin', ya know? Cut a dude some slack."

Donatello stepped over the window sill and turned to face his brother with a dire look in his dark eyes. "Follow me. Upstairs," he instructed simply, and then moved to climb up the fire escape.

Michelangelo hastily but silently hopped out of the window, closed it behind him in a rare display of safety awareness, and followed his brother closely.

The two brothers sat on the ledge of the roof, gazing down at the city below. New York never slept, but it did, to some degree, slow down in the middle of the night. A distant police siren wailed somewhere far below, and Michelangelo turned to look at his brother expectantly.

"So?"

Donatello continued to gaze out at the darkened cityscape with an eerily blank look on his face. Michelangelo grimaced and opened his mouth to speak again when Donatello finally answered. "I'm not going back home just yet, Michelangelo."

"Urrrgh, Donnie," Michelangelo heaved, slumping his whole upper body to the side in a dramatic show of displeasure. "Don't be like that. Like... like Raph!" he added for impact. Donatello seemed unfazed by the comparison. "I mean, where the heck would you go instead?"

"I don't know, but it just feels like there's something I have to do first, or something I have to understand before I can show my face there again."

Michelangelo heaved a defeated sigh. Was he the only one of his brothers that thought life was simple and did not need to be burdened with ambiguous soul-searching? "Seriously bro, I don't think it's a big deal," he offered soberly, waving a hand palm-up. "Master Splinter probably straightened Leo out. 'Sides, I know he's really worried about you. Heck, I'm surprised he didn't like, send Leo or Raph to look for us. We can just go home, Leo will say he's sorry, Raph will give ya a noogie, and we can forget about the whooooole thing!"

"It's not that simple."

"Why the heck can't it be?" Michelangelo wailed desperately, hands darting up in the air.

Donatello grew silent again and shifted his vision to his exasperated brother. "Michelangelo, I used to think it could be. That it should be that simple between us. I never understood why Raphael had to act out, or why Leonardo was so obsessed with his training and 'honor', or even why you acted like such a baby sometimes."

"Hey!" Michelangelo snapped in a scandalized tone, lowering his arms and balling up his fists..

"I thought things should just fall together, and that everyone else was the problem-- that you guys weren't trying hard enough. But now that I've reflected on it, maybe that's not the case."

"Donnie, what are you talking about?"

Donatello steepled his fingers together and gazed up at the moon intently. "I saw something dark inside of Leonardo today. Something in his eyes. Something like hate."

"C'mon Donnie, Leo doesn't hate you! Yeah he's a fat jerk most of the time now, but he doesn't hate you. I don't think..."

"Maybe not, but after this..." And he touched his fingers to the pad of gauze taped to his face. "I'm not marching back there with my shell between my legs. I don't think I'll be able to control my anger towards him, or even Raph. And we all know who would win in a match of anger between me and him."

"Donnie..."

"All that, and this dream..." A weird, cunning smile fell over Donatello's face and it bothered Michelangelo immensely. "Before I woke up earlier today, on the roof, I had this dream."

"Yeah me too," Michelangelo shrugged, failing to see the relevance. "There were all these blocks fallin' everywhere. I think I was playin' Tetris..."

"Well, in my dream, Leo was the one falling," Donatello explained ominously. "Every time I tried to get closer, he moved away until he fell backward off the side of a building, like this one."

Michelangelo grew silent, not knowing how to respond. Instead, he foolishly looked down to the street below and had an abrupt spell of vertigo that made him wobble a bit.

Donatello pressed on. "I know dreams are just interpretations of one's subconscious preoccupations manifesting themselves through visual fabrications of the mind's eye, so to speak..." He could tell that Michelangelo was becoming lost in the vocabulary. "... and normally I wouldn't put stock in such things, but..." He turned and gazed sternly at Michelangelo, his eyes filled with purpose. "I can't help but think that it has some literal meaning."

"Literal...?" Michelangelo repeated blankly, lost in Donatello's unsettling glare.

"If I go back and confront Leonardo now, it's only going to push us farther apart until one of us goes over the edge."

"Dude, bro..." Michelangelo stopped himself from saying "That's already happened". This statement, as true as it may have been, would definitely not help his argument that things were going to be "fine" between his brothers. Instead he merely continued to stare at Donatello with a sense of dread and uncertainty.

"And I'm not yielding to him," Donatello said darkly, his sober tone plummeting into some mixed feeling of resentment and caution.

Michelangelo's mind raced for words- meaningful words to stop Donatello from whatever it was he was planning. But alas, all he could manage was tense silence.

"So Mikey," Donatello finally said in barely above a whisper. "If you could, I want you to go back home. Without me."

"No..." Michelangelo murmured half-heartedly.

"I can't and I don't want to force you to do anything, Michelangelo," Donatello continued with a certain understanding in his voice. "But please understand... I'm not going back. I can't. Not right now."

Michelangelo was out of words. His spirit was exhausted from rising into happiness and descending into sorrow over and over again. Instead of speaking, he leaned over carefully and put his arms around his brother and squeezed him. "Donnie," he finally wheezed as Donatello patted his arm with his hand. "I'll go with you..."

Donatello smiled, but it was one full of bleakness. "No Mikey, you should go home to sensei and the guys."

"But what'll I tell 'em?"

"That's up to you," Donatello said curtly. "I think you should tell them the truth, though. I don't want you catching slack again when you don't deserve it."

"The truth?" Michelangelo repeated incredulously, making no signs that he intended to release his brother any time soon. "That I found you, and let you run away again, and then like, came home empty-handed? Sensei would tear my shell off!"

"Don't be silly."

"Well, at least, he'd never forgive me."

Donatello paused, and then looked down. "I'm sorry, Michelangelo. I know this is anything but fair to you. It's selfish of me, and for that I apologize. But it's something I have to do. Sensei told me to be strong when my brothers were weak, but I have to change myself first before I can make Leonardo understand what he's doing to us."

"Do ya think I'm weak?"

Donatello blinked, turning to look at Michelangelo as he clung tenaciously to his side. "No, Mikey, I don't. In fact, now, I think you're the only one of us who's got the right idea."

The corners of Michelangelo's mouth fell further into a frown. He did not know exactly what Donatello meant by the comment, but he figured it was a compliment-- something he had been hoping for since sitting at the breakfast table the morning before. He had somehow thought he would be much happier to hear something like it. Instead it sounded so dire, so hopeless, and filled him with dread.

"Donnie, whuddam I gonna do? You're... my best friend..." Donatello's head dropped at the sound of his brother's words. They sounded so crushed and lonely.

"I'll come back, I promise. Soon. Don't worry, Mikey. I wouldn't leave you behind."


	7. Chapter 7

**No Longer Responsible**

_TMNT Fan Fic by teh Vilsy_

**A/N: **Peter Laird, Kevin Eastman, Mirage Studios… talk to them if you wanna know who's **responsible** for these lovable green fellows. Not me of course.

Well, I'm not even going to write an apology for how long it took me to updated with this chapter, because that would just be offensive to you. Hehe. Anyway, at long, long last, here is chapter 7. Again, thanks for all of the comments. I'm very happy to contribute a little something to the TMNT fic community. As a warning, this chapter is pretty short and has heavy use of italics. What can I say? I will try NOT to take another year on chapter 8, but no promises! Hehe, thanks and enjoy!

* * *

Raphael loomed in a tumultuous cloud of anxiety and agitation as he hovered impatiently in the doorway of Splinter's shrine. After the long "discussion" they had regarding the morning's events, his sensei had insisted that he not be disturbed for one whole hour as he meditated.

_The hell kinda time is it to be sittin' on yer butt day-dreamin'? What's he possibly thinkin' about? Mikey and Donnie are still gone! What's takin' him so damn long? _Raphael did not wear a watch, but he had been attentively (if not obsessively) counting the minutes in his head. _3, 2, 1..._ On cue, he burst across the threshold that separated the dark hallway and the dimly lit room. He strode purposefully up to the rat who sat in quiet reflection on a soft and well-worn red cushion. Raphael's hard footfalls stopped a few feet in front of his father, and then he lowered himself to his knees abruptly. "Sensei," he murmured in a low but audible voice, glaring intently at his father's peaceful features.

To Raphael's relief, Splinter slowly opened his dark, almond-shaped eyes. If he had come in a moment too early, Raphael would have been graced with dismissive silence from his sensei. "Speak, Raphael," Splinter invited in a calm yet stern voice.

Raphael nodded once then averted his eyes, lowering his rear to rest against his heels and placing both hands on his knees. "Masta' Splinta, Mikey ain't come back yet- he prolly got lost or somethin'- but can't I just go out an'-"

Splinter closed his eyes again and shook his head, interrupting Raphael's stream of words. "No, my son. You will stay here."

"But!"

"I have sent your brother to collect Donatello. Have confidence in him."

"Yeah, but c'mon, sensei," Raphael began with an ounce of amusement strewn within in his voice and a flourish of his right hand. "It's Mikey fer cryin' out loud. He probably got distracted by somethin' shiny. 'Sides, they been gone for hours!" Raphael adjusted his posture, sitting up straighter but cocking his head to the side to avoid eye contact with his father. "What if, ya know, somethin' happened t'them?" He stifled any inflections in his voice lest they betray feelings of worry that he had for his brothers' well being.

Splinter's weary eyes opened again and observed Raphael pensively. "I share and admire your concern, my son. Perhaps, now, you have a better understanding of how your brothers and I feel when you leave us without explanation and we do not know what has become of you."

Raphael turned his head forward and narrowed his eyes, gazing at Splinter intensely. _Sure, sure, whatever,_ he thought. The corner of his mouth twitched as he searched for a rebuttal good enough to refute the point Splinter had made, but he could think of nothing that would not sound hypocritical. Finally, he clenched his fingers together and looked down at the small stretch of floor between them. "So what, I'm just s'posed to sit here an' wait?"

Splinter gently tilted his head and lifted a hand in an inviting manner. "If you wish, you may sit with me and meditate."

Raphael let out a snort and gritted his teeth testily. "Meditate, meditate, meditate! What good does that do?" he barked suddenly, jumping up to his feet and starting to pace angrily like a riled tiger.

"It helps to clear the mind," Splinter recited, not reacting to Raphael's outburst in any visible manner.

"Yeah, I know, I know!" Raphael growled, flinging his arms up in the air hopelessly as he looped back in forth in front of his father.

"To remove all distractions and troubled thoughts. Only in this way can one achieve clarity and the true wisdom upon which to act." Splinter observed that, as with anything relating to meditation, Raphael was clearly unimpressed.

After a few more repetitions of aggressive stalking to and fro, Raphael finally stormed back to his original position and knelt back down in front of Splinter as if nothing had happened. "Lotta good it's doing Leo back dere," the red-banded turtle sneered through his teeth, gripping restlessly at the rust-colored pads adorning his knees.

Splinter lowered his head and sighed deeply, almost mournfully. "There is a great strain on Leonardo's mind and a grave heaviness in his heart. I cannot elicit him to express it in words, so I have instructed him to meditate on his actions whilst I, in turn, think on your absent brothers, Raphael."

"So Leo jus' gets t'sit in his room zonin' out while Mikey and Donnie could be anywhere?" Raphael blurted, raising his fists and then slamming them back down against his legs.

"Take heart, my son," Splinter said in a soothing voice, reaching out to touch Raphael's arm. "Come. Clear your thoughts of your anger and apprehension. Relax your mind and your body."

"Sorry sensei," Raphael declared, pulling his arm away and standing up again. "I ain't got the patience fer this. Gotta do it my way." With that, he bowed his head briefly as a small sign of respect and did an about-face, marching out of the room toward the dojo.

Splinter heaved another deep breath and shook his head, his whiskers waggling about slowly. It broke his heart to see how abruptly his family was collapsing again. Perhaps if he had intervened before, or meditated more often than watching soap operas, he would have sensed this unrest and could have helped alleviate it through wisdom and parenting. However, he had promised himself when he granted Leonardo the right and responsibility to train his brothers that he would not undermine his son's decisions. But he had never expected this. Splinter closed his eyes again and let his hands come to rest against his crossed legs. He pushed these worries away slowly until his mind was once again calm and empty of all worldly thoughts. Then, out of the inky darkness of his sub consciousness, sprang a vision. It made him jump violently and startled him back into awareness, eyes wide and frightened. "My son!"

****

Michelangelo's eyes squeezed closed and his fists clenched at his sides. Donatello had a _lot_ of nerve. He was just as bad as Leonardo and Raphael-- they all shut him out one way or another. The orange-banded turtle suddenly felt more anger and despair well up in the pit of his stomach than he could ever remember having. Each step back towards the lair was a painful uncertainty. What was happening with his family? Would it ever go back to being right?

A small splash. Michelangelo stopped walking and whirled around, the tails of his bandanna fluttering in an arc. "Donnie?" he said reflexively and full of grasping hope. His mouth had curled up into an expectant smile despite the unrest he had been feeling, but then his expression sank back down to a grimace. All but a tiny part of him knew it could not be Donatello, but then... who else could it be?

"Raph?" Michelangelo said much more quietly, looking all over the dark enclosure of the tunnel. The sound had come from behind him, thus, whomever or whatever it was had been following him from the surface. It was not highly likely that it was one of his brothers, if it was not indeed Donatello. Michelangelo's logic calculated this just fine, but he hoped a familiar voice would answer him anyway. He sensed slow but large sweeping movement which ruled out the possibility of it being any number of small sewer pests, but he still could not see any trace of another being.

A blurred streak flashed to his side and then seemed to glide along the low ceiling in a lightning-fast arc. Michelangelo barely had time to lift his head up, but did so just in the nick of time to see the faint glimmer of two weapons coming straight down at him. With every bit of energy he had to spare, the turtle threw his body out of the way as the sharp "fwoosh-CHING-THMP" sound echoed within the narrow chamber. Michelangelo somersaulted across the trickling water and slid into a crouching position, eyes narrowed. There in the darkness was another crouched figure, bearing its weight down on what appeared to be the hand guards of two blades buried in the shallow sewage. Michelangelo's heart skipped a beat and he squinted even more. Above, a small, artificial, yellowish light flickered weakly, as if clinging to life. _Don't go out_, Michelangelo pleaded in his mind. The inky silhouette of his attacker gradually drew itself to a standing position and moved its left arm. From what Michelangelo's eyes could see, the tip of a blade was pointed at him from a few meters away. Instinctively, Michelangelo's hands whipped to his belt to pull out his nunchaku. His fingers grasped fruitlessly at air. "Shit!" he cried out, remembering that his weapons were still hidden away in those wretched couch cushions. Yet more remorseless Déjà Vu! His flagrant outburst caused his attacker to charge at him, one blade set forward to skewer its target, the other raised high to slash down. Michelangelo may have released his bladder, or maybe he did not. But in any case, he felt the unforgiving asphyxiation of fear as the weapon was thrust toward his plastron. His wits returned to him in the next instant and he spun quickly to his right, narrowly avoiding the viper-like sting of the stabbing blade. A flash of a memory entered his mind--one from a long time ago in the heat of sparring in the dojo of his home. _Avoid the thrust, dip under the slash._ His body curled backward as he continued to arc around his assailant. The left hand was coming down fast, carrying the blade with it at the lethal speed of a guillotine, aiming to finish what the right hand had failed to do. Michelangelo released all balance and let himself fall square onto his shell. As soon as his back impacted with the wet ground, he expertly rolled to his side, planting his hands into the trickling water and kicking his left leg out in front of him in a sweeping motion. _Now, his momentum won't allow him to avoid being tripped. He'll toss his right sword to save himself from falling onto it, maybe the left one too if I'm lucky. I was never good with a sword but heck, I'll learn real quick._ Michelangelo remembered a very similar attack from a training session many years ago, but, unlike the rest of the Déjà Vu he was experiencing, this did not go exactly as it had before. His attacker, despite being off balance from the downward swipe of the left blade, did not trip over Michelangelo's leg. Instead, it leaped over them and twisted its body in mid air and jabbed the tip of the right blade with such amazing force that its razor-fine point plunged into the hard ground. As a result, the attacker's descent was slowed and its balance was not lost. Once the shadowy figure regained its footing, with narrowed eyes it slashed downward at Michelangelo with the right-hand blade.

The orange-banded turtle wailed out in surprise. The pale yellow light seemed to be flickering as quickly as his heart was thumping against his ribcage. Hastily, Michelangelo did the only thing he could think of to avoid getting a limb cleaved off. He rolled back onto his shell and pushed himself with his hands, creating enough momentum to spin around with his legs sprawled upward, executing something akin to a _windmill_ or _spin-a-roonie_ as a break-dancer might call it. Michelangelo closed his eyes tightly as he whirled around, teeth clenched in preparation of the acute pain that would surely follow-- the agony of sharp steel slicing into flesh. He would miss his leg dearly. He felt an impact against the shin of his left leg, and then at the foot of his right. Astoundingly, it merely caused him slight discomfort as opposed to the debilitating pain of dismemberment that he had braced for. His momentum allowed him to push up with his hands and flip up off of his back. He stood there a moment astounded, realizing that his recovery maneuver had miraculously succeeded. The assailant's weapon had been kicked from its hand and the sword flew several meters away. Its wielder was sent reeling: the "splish splash" of staggering footfalls made testament to this.

_Disarmed. Ha!_ Now the playing field was even. Michelangelo hastily rocked back and raised his fists in a defensive stance. Despite himself, a small grin crept onto the turtle's face. Next to Raphael, the orange-banded turtle was pretty top-notch when it came to unarmed combat. Raphael would never admit to this of course, but now, Michelangelo's brawling skills would surely protect him from this mysterious assailant. But then... _who was this person?_ Two swords, a sickeningly familiar style of attack, skilled and relentless... Michelangelo's hands lowered ever so slightly and a disturbed scowl melted over his grin. "Who are you?" he demanded in a hushed voice. The other creature stood deathly still in the distance, staring at Michelangelo with dim, hateful eyes. The light finally flickered out, blanketing them in oppressive darkness.

***WHAM***

Michelangelo's jaw snapped upward and he was literally lifted from his feet. His entire body arched and he flew backward to the ground with a gut-wrenching impact. His skeleton and muscles froze stiff as his nervous system was thrown into shock, and he could do naught but stare directly up at the ceiling where that light had been flashing. The turtle's hearing was muffled; his head felt like it was full of water or heavy air, or perhaps a ton of bricks. But it was not impaired enough to block out the sound of a blade being lifted from the ground or the splash of purposeful footsteps moving through the sewage.

What a hit. _Move, damn it._ Michelangelo's arms and legs, as well as every other inch of him, chose to ignore their owner's silent plea. For a split second he feared his jaw had been knocked clean off of his face as there was only numbness where piercing pain should have been. The sensation made him think instantly of Donatello and the shotgun-like blast he had received to the jaw from his brother's fist. Déjà vu should be _outlawed_. How he desperately wished Donatello was there with him now in this pitch darkness. He let out a sound that could only be described as a strained squeak as the tip of a blade was suddenly pressed against the base of his neck. _Not again._ He was going to die, and the worst of it was that he could not identify the one who desired him dead. His eyelids were an unstoppable downward force, but he tried valiantly to keep his eyes open and look up at the sword bearer's face. "Leo..." he croaked as the weight inside of his cranium threatened to snuff out his consciousness entirely.

In the next moment the sword tip was wrenched from the exposed and vulnerable skin of Michelangelo's neck. Some powerful but silent force had flung its mass into the assailant's body, knocking it several meters away through the slowly flowing sludge. This second entity landed lightly beside Michelangelo and remained quietly at his side, placing a furry hand on the turtle's arm.

Michelangelo was barely clinging to consciousness, but the familiar touch of his father was enough to make his fear ebb. Splinter's vision was much keener in the darkness than his son's, and he peered intently at the form of Michelangelo's assailant, poised and ready to defend should another assault come. The dark figure regained its footing and stood brooding in the distance. Despite his gut instinct, Splinter called out, "Why have you attacked?"

It was in this very instant that a faint rustling sound was heard from the distant figure, and in the next moment a sharp, pin-like object was thrust into the rat's forearm. The shadowy form had moved so remarkably fast and so inaudibly that Splinter barely had the reaction time to lift his arm up in defense to the attack. He gasped and gurgled out a plaintive groan. Like lightning, the small and sharp weapon was withdrawn and the attacker whisked by like the wind. The initial pain was acute, but the blow itself was not crippling in the least. Splinter drew himself to his feet, clutching his arm with his free paw, preparing against another strike. To his surprise, all was silent and he could neither see nor sense any presence besides his son. Several beats passed and the rat scanned the area thoroughly, whiskers twitching. Nothing.

"Zen...zei..."

Splinter's heart skipped a beat and he was pulled from his heightened state of awareness by the wheezing and slurring sound of his son's voice. "Michelangelo," he replied softly, forgetting about the irritating sting under the fur of his left arm and kneeling back down to attend to his son. "I am here. You are safe."

At the reassuring sound of his father's voice, Michelangelo stirred and tried desperately to move any part of his body. "Man... m'I glad issu, zenzei..."

"Do not strain, child. I will help you. Come," Splinter insisted, struggling to get a hold of Michelangelo's larger frame and lift it from the murky sewage. Splinter winced as the pressure against his arm ignited the tiny but persistent prickle of discomfort, but steadying Michelangelo was his foremost concern. His son managed to be righted on his feet, but the blow to the head had certainly been disorienting at the very least and he slumped heavily against his father's shoulder. "Come, I will take you home."

Michelangelo, bleary as his cognizant thought was, managed to nod in agreement. The two took all of one step when another set of rapid footfalls suddenly echoed in the distance, becoming faster and louder in little time. Splinter's eyes narrowed and he restrained Michelangelo from continuing forward by pressing his free paw against his son's plastron.

"Zen...zei. S'he comin' back?" Michelangelo murmured as his muscles began to tense in reaction to the oncoming presence.

At first, Splinter remained deathly silent. Uncertainty clouded his senses, but finally, he spoke. "No."

The splashing sounds came to an abrupt stop a few paces away and their owner heaved deep breaths. "Finally... found ya," a distressed voice rasped. A moment later it continued. "Mikey... you... OK?"

"Raph?" Michelangelo inquired with a newfound air of relief in his breath.

In the darkness, Raphael nodded and composed himself, standing up straight to focus on the shadowy mass before him that was apparently his brother and his sensei. "Woulda got here sooner but-" Raphael let out an agitated grunt and clenched a fist as he observed the condition of the two who slumped before him. "Masta Splinta," he announced in a dire voice. "He's gone. Leo's _gone_."


	8. Chapter 8

It was unfamiliar: the feeling of being completely alone. Sure, he had felt lonely on several occasions. That sensation was not a stranger by any means. But truly being alone, utterly, felt new and painfully heavy.

The aura of the city had changed considerably now; the veil of darkness and the chill of the night were troubling instead of a welcomed cover. Donatello moved slowly and hyper-cautiously through the blackened alleyways. Each step was placed with a paranoid glance to the rear, and at intervals he would seep into an empty corner or a boarded-up doorway and stay there for long periods of time. His usual confidence in his abilities to navigate the night unseen and unheard had mysteriously faltered during the past couple of hours. Though, as a turtle, mutant or not, he had no personal apprehension of any cultural taboos of nudity, being without his bandanna did make him feel vulnerable. All of the logic centers of his mind could not rationalize it, and he dealt with it by skittering timidly along and taking extra care.

It was not just the physical issue of his bandanna being lost, but the general mistrust he now had in his own judgment. He had, for his part, been acting entirely on feeling-- something Donatello did not typically subscribe to.

Donatello ducked quickly behind a rusty green and yellow dumpster that sat square in the center of a damp and empty alley. Nearby, the complacent yowling of stray cats signaled that there was more than likely no humans around. Donatello peeked around the garbage receptacle, immune to its considerable stink from years of living under septic systems. Beyond, he saw where the alley met a main street, still relatively bustling with cars and trucks despite the late hour. Donatello made a quick observation of his surroundings: a dumpster, several service entrances, a large bay with wooden skiffs piled and sizable metal double doors. At any moment, a small truck could come cruising along to make a late night delivery. Any number of things could happen to blow his cover or cause a disturbance. His overactive mind ran logical algorithms for what seemed like a million scenarios that could occur right then and there. All of which resulted in the fact that he was alone, and no one who cared two licks about him knew where he was.

How did Raphael do it?

Before Donatello could ponder further, a high pitched screech that he could only guess was feline in origin split the stillness of the alley. It was followed instantly by a loud "clanging" of tin against concrete, and the gruff voice of a human.

"Durn cats! Git outta here, scat!"

Donatello turned quickly to the opposite end of the alley, where he had come from earlier. Damn it, he cursed silently to himself. Someone's coming. I didn't see anyone when I came through there! What am I doing? Where am I going? This is crazy. This place... it's like a cage...

He tilted his head up and took one look at the massive bin of unsanitary refuse and felt a wave of dread wash over him.

"S'just a couple of cats, Ross," another masculine voice came from just around the corner in the distance. "Sheez, they got just as much right t'be here as we do."

"Well, I dun like 'em. Who knows what kinda diseases they've got."

"Don't mean ya gotta chuck yer last good pair of shoes at 'em, idiot. Now c'mon, this way."

Whomever the voices belonged to, they were coming in Donatello's direction. Damn it. He quickly rose from his crouched position and lifted the black rubber lid of the dumpster. With a scowl, in he went.

Immune to funk or nay, the foul stench of rotting food scraps and who knows what else was now unbearably close to Donatello's face as he practically bathed in the filth. This isn't any good, he thought desperately to himself. After they leave, I have to get back onto the rooftops or somewhere. It's only going to get worse in a few hours. They'll be swarming all over the place. How does Raph do this?

"Put yer damn shoes back on. Honestly, Ross, this ain't the park."

"I got 'em, I got 'em. Pfft, I'd rather walk barefoot back in this dump than in Central Park."

"Point taken. C'mon, let's get somethin' t'nosh."

The voices were now oppressively close to where Donatello hid. Though he knew they were just a couple of humans, the turtle felt uneasy by their presence, as though he were evading something much more dangerous. It took every bit of control over himself that he had not to jump when the lid of the dumpster suddenly jostled.

"Fool! What are you doin' now?"

"What's it look like, Reggie? You finally talked yourself blind?"

"Don't start with me."

"S'thing's next to a restaurant. You know them wasteful bastards throw away stuff that's still good. Jus' gimme a hand with this top."

The lid lifted a few more inches and Donatello was beside himself. Should he burst out and sprint past the humans? Should he knock them out before they knew what was happening? Should he climb out and politely apologize for being a mutant turtle and be on his way? He slid his hands over his head and clenched his temples. He had been in much worse situations than this. Why was is so terrifying?

"Git away from there, idiot. I got a full pocket of change. We'll hit up that little all-night joint down the street there. Cheap coffee, good donuts. Maybe a cop or two in there at this hour but least y'know it's safe. The broad they got workin' in there at night is real sweet. They won't bother us. Now c'mon, let's get some real food, ya nitwit."

"All right, all right. Damn, you got an answer fer everythin', don'tcha?"

The dumpster lid slammed closed again, and Donatello was consumed by darkness and putridity.

He waited for what seemed like another full eternity before he could no longer hear their quarrelsome voices. With new found zeal, he batted open the dumpster's lid and somersaulted out onto the asphalt. In the next instant, he was running back into the heart of the alleyways.

Too close. Got to get to the roofs. Yechhh... what is this?

He plucked from his shoulder what appeared to be a greasy, rotten banana peel, and then wiped away a large mass of gelatinous goo that was clinging tenaciously to his bicep. How embarrassing.

But it was difficult to be embarrassed when there was no one around to see you parading around in a lovely coat of hot garbage. Up ahead, Donatello spotted a parked van that he had passed on his way towards the main street. Instead of hiding behind it timidly, he would now use it to escape the lower world.

He leapt from the ground and landed awkwardly on the top of the white vehicle, nearly slipping due to whatever gunk was still clinging to his feet. With another determined thrust, he flung himself toward the adjacent building, reached out with his arms and grasped onto a window ledge. His hips followed quickly and he braced his legs and feet to make the softest impact against the hard brick wall as he possibly could. To his relief, he felt no pain in his hand and made hardly any sound at all. This small victory was an inspiration and it drove him to haul himself quickly up the side of the building, climbing quietly but efficiently from window to window.

It was a moderately long climb to the roof, but Donatello felt utterly winded when he finally scaled his way to the top. On the roof, there was a billboard with flood lights shining dutifully on the image of a woman with too-perfect teeth, cheesing her way into your heart so you would buy whatever product that was floating next to her head. Donatello welcomed the sight, for while he cared little for orange-scented dish soap (though he surely could have use some at the time), the pocket of darkness in the crevice beneath the billboard was a perfect place to rest.

It was there that he caught his breath, continued to groom the lingering filth from his person, and did some deep thinking.

Fine mess I've put myself in, he mused while using one of his arm bands to buff some unknown substance from his plastron. Stumbling around like a scared child. Covered in trash. Sheesh.

He leaned back against the foundation of the billboard and gazed through the openings in the metal platform above his head. The colors of the sky were mixing playfully from navy blue, smooth violet, to a deep orange. Donatello sighed, admiring its beauty, but remembering that it always meant that he and his brothers must make haste to the underground. It was rare, with the exception of Raphael, that they even stayed out in the night long enough to see the first signs of dawn. It was a soothing sight; even if the dormant meteorologist in him knew it was destined to cloud over with a drab city-gray as the day moved on, it was still awe-inspiring. Either way, he was never really meant to enjoy it. The loathsome feelings of self-pity rumbled discontentedly in his stomach as he laid there. But then, his mind suddenly returned to the conversation he had heard while hiding, oh so proudly, in the dumpster. He had cursed the presence of the two intrusive humans, but, from his analytical assumptions, they were not all that different from him. They must have been down on their luck for one to entertain eating from the garbage, and most likely without a home and traveling late at night for safety concerns. Shunned by the day-walkers and finding a small niche where they felt safe and could belong, even if just for a short time. It was starting to sound painfully familiar. And the worst of it was, it still seemed as though the two had senses of humor and sarcastic yet preciously genuine optimism.

Perhaps Donatello could not assume all this from just a few moments of faintly overheard dialog, but the prospects of it made him consider his own situation and how he was handling it. He had chosen this estrangement of his own free will-- left Michelangelo in veritable despair and abandoned his home without a word to his other brothers or his father. Who knows what circumstances had befallen the two humans below, but what Donatello did know was that he had little right to be moping and feeling sorry for himself.

If he was to honor his word, he would spend this time improving himself, quash his anger and inhibitions about his own strength and worth, and be able to confront Leonardo with stability and control. Yes, that was the plan he had laid out for himself. This was what Splinter had expected of him all along. And boy did he have his work cut out for him.

Donatello shifted his weight and rolled onto his side. The surface was cold, metallic, and damp-- nothing compared to the comfort of his mattress in the lair. But this was the beginning of his journey- a similar journey that Leonardo had been on, but much closer to home. It was Donatello's intention to figure out what had gone wrong on his brother's pilgrimage, and not to go down the same path. He closed his eyes and tried to ease his active mind, wanting to get a few more hours of sleep before he decided his next move.


End file.
